


You Can't Whisper Above the Thunder (But You Can Fly Anywhere)

by AliveAndRestless



Series: Take To The Skies [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Happy Ending, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Injury Recovery, Manipulative Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), No shipping here, Platonic Relationships, Recovery, Violence, War, Wingfic, only for the prologue though, so i may have lied about the no shipping, the karlnapity is very background i promise, tommy gets a therapy arc, worse than canon typical violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29302107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliveAndRestless/pseuds/AliveAndRestless
Summary: He hears birdsong.That's the first thing he notices, when he's able to breathe past the pain in his ribs. When he opens his eyes to green leaves and a blue summer sky, he thinks he's dreaming. The sky is never blue in the Dream SMP, not after all the explosions. It's always tinged with grey, the scent of ash and wood smoke subtle in the air. When was the last time he was somewhere with clean air? Exile?He sits up. The pain is blinding, but he grits his teeth against it, hands tight around the wound in his side. He looks around, really looks around, and it takes everything he has to keep from screaming. Nothing but woods on every side, trees swaying gently in a warm breeze, birds flittering from branch to branch. Fuck.He falls back with a thump, and immediately regrets it, hissing in pain. Well, one thing's for sure. He's not in fucking Kansas anymore.(Alternatively, Tommy gets gravely injured, and to save his life, Dream drop kicks him to a different server. Unfortunately for him, it has the opposite effect than what he was expecting.)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Karl Jacobs/Sapnap, Charles | Grian & TommyInnit, Clay | Dream & Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Dream SMP Ensemble & TommyInnit, Sam | Awesamdude & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: Take To The Skies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2152167
Comments: 107
Kudos: 855





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on my phone in a single day, so it might look a little strange if you're not reading it on mobile. Feel free to correct me if you find any spelling errors! As this was a spur of the moment fic, updates will be very inconsistent, so please be patient. A big shout out to my friend Brianna, who read this first. Surprise, Bitch! It's a crossover fic now! 
> 
> TWs: Blood, injury, temporary character death, characters grieving/mourning, Dream being his manipulative self. 
> 
> The first few chapters will be pretty bloody, but there's fluff coming, I promise.

Sam was crying.

Tommy had never been able to see this much of Sam’s face before, but with the mask pushed down below his chin and the cracked goggles hiding somewhere in his mud-stained hair, he could see it clearly, even through his own pain-induced haze. His lips were trembling, tears slipping down his face, a smudge of crimson below his nose, a splatter of it across his jawline. He presses his lips together tightly and tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach his watering eyes.

He was talking, too. Mumbling in a low, thrumming voice as he clutched him close with blood-stained hands. Tommy couldn’t focus enough to make out any words.

The pain was overwhelming. He was no stranger to pain, over the past years he’d built up a pretty impressive tolerance, but that was nothing compared to the deep, piercing agony in his side, he could still feel the echo of the cold steel sword that had slipped effortlessly between his ribs, even though it had been long-since removed. The gash in his side throbbed with every breath, his white-knuckled grip on Sam’s arms the only thing keeping him awake. He couldn’t see the wound, not with Sam holding him the way he was, but he knew it was bad. Really bad.

He needed to stay awake. He needed to stay awake.

His pained whimpers turn to sobs, hands clawing to find some relief in Sam’s hold. The choked sound only served to jar his ribs, and he couldn’t blink back the tears. It hurt, it hurt _so bad._

He was going to die, wasn’t he? He didn’t want to die, _he didn’t want to die-_

Sam was shushing him, leaning closer to brush his tears away with one bloodied hand, and he sobs again at the contact, leaning into his palm. It was warm, calloused and steady. No gloves.

“You’re alright, Tommy.” He’s saying, now close enough for Tommy to make out the words, even if he has to read his lips when his head fills with static. “You’re gonna be alright, you’re gonna be just fine.”

 _“I don’t want to die.”_ He chokes out, blood bubbling from his lips, eyes wide and glossy.

Sam just shushes him again, pulling him closer. He whines at the movement, but clutches at his armor with all of his strength once he’s close enough, the battered gold chest plate offers no relief, but Sam’s arms are warm and his breath is hot as he pulls Tommy closer to his chest.

Somebody is screaming, too distant and shrill for him to know who it was. Blurry figures flicker at the edge of his vision, a hint of red, a glint of sparkling blue metal. The sound of clashing swords and grunts of pain and impact are much closer than they were before. He watches with baited breath, hands and lips trembling, but they don’t come any closer, walking right by without bothering to check their hiding place.

He looks up, up at the stained wood above their heads. The Prime Path, he remembers. There are tiny veins of red in it now. It provides a good enough place to hide, tucked away out of sight as the people who had been his friends a few months ago walk away with blood stained hands, butchering anyone in their path.

Shadows pull in and out, keeping his eyes open becomes harder and harder. He knows what this means, he knows, and he can feel the terror rising in the back of his throat. He wants to run, he wants to scream, but all that comes out is a choked, warbling sound, and Sam runs a shaking hand through his hair in response.

His hands were warm.

His hands were…

“-Mmy? _Tommy!”_

He blinks, a low whimper escaping his lips as Sam jostles him again. Panicked green eyes swim in to frame as the world comes back into focus. Something warm and wet drips on his face, and it’s brushed away with a thumb. “Are you with me?”

He nods, and just that movement alone has him holding his breath. It hurt, _it hurt so bad-_

Sam runs his hand through his hair again, and he leans into the touch, going limp with a whine.

The hands are helplessly gentle as he scratches at his scalp. “You’re alright, Tommy. Just stay awake, yeah? Help is coming.”

Falling asleep now was a death sentence, he needs to stay awake for as long as possible. He knew that, he remembers being told all those months ago, Wilbur holding his son close, winding bandages around his head with a pained smile. _“You have a concussion, Fundy. You need to stay awake. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse, that was a pretty bad fall.”_

He remembers Technoblade running a large, scarred hand through his tangled and dirty hair, _“You’re hurt, Tommy. Stay awake. You can sleep after you drink this.”_

Staying awake had never been this hard before.

His grip on Sam’s chest plate loosens, hands falling limp. The man notices immediately, tugging him closer, panic clear in voice as he shakes him as gently as he can, cupping his jaw with his hand, desperately trying to get him to meet his eyes.

He wants to stay awake, he does, but the pain is unbearable, every limb feels as heavy as concrete, just the effort of blinking is more than he can bear. Just a little nap, that’s it. Just to rest his eyes. Surely that would be fine, right?

Maybe he’d wake up somewhere nicer. The hotel, maybe. Sam would have to fix it first, it wasn’t much of a hotel anymore. It hadn’t been, for a while. Not since the Eggpire had declared war. It was ruined, now. Everything was. The entire SMP was choked out with red vines, Snowchester was safe, probably, but they were too far away to of any use now.

Sam had told him that help was coming. He knew that was a lie. He tried to believe in it anyways.

He wishes Tubbo was here.

Sam’s voice gets louder as his eyes slip shut, shaking more aggressive as he tries to get Tommy to open his eyes, to do anything, and Tommy can hear the grief in his voice, feel his tears on his face, but he just can’t-

“I’m sorry.” He tries to say, with whatever strength he has left. It comes out as barely more than a whisper, blood bubbling from his lips. _“I’m sorry.”_

He lets himself go.

-

Hidden underneath what used to be the prime path, a man sits. There’s blood pooled underneath him, on his legs, his chest plate, his hands. A smudge underneath his nose, a splatter across his jaw. More blood than anyone would want to see in their lifetime, still warm and dripping. Only a drop or two of it was his own.

There had been someone in his arms a moment ago. A boy, tall and blonde-haired, not quite an adult, but not a child, either. His son. His son.

He buries his face in his hands and he screams.

-

Not too far away from him are two other men.

Dressed in red from head to toe, eyes glittering in the dark like rubies. There’s fresh blood staining their clothes, their swords, but it’s barely even visible between the shadows they’re standing in and the shade of their clothing.

They walk in sync, each step jolting and unnatural. They don’t look back as they head deeper and deeper into the crimson vines around them.

It had once been their home, months ago. It was nothing more than a mess of tangled roots and veins, now. Much of the rest of the SMP was the same, but the vines were thicker here, and seemed to pulse gently, leaves swaying softly, urging them forwards.

The sun sets behind them as they descend into the dark. Their mission was completed. For now, they could rest.

-

Farther away, in a snow biome, a young boy sits.

Almost an adult, but not quite. You definitely couldn’t tell it by the softness of his face or his stature. If you looked him in the eyes, maybe, or if you caught sight of the star-burst scar across one side of his face. It makes him look years older than he is.

He’s never looked more like a child, now. Sitting in the corner of a dark, nearly empty room. He’s staring at a screen, ugly yellow font glaring up at him from the projection from his wrist. The screen eventually shuts down, the projection dissolving into thin air after enough time went by, and he can do nothing but stare at the space the message had once been.

It had gone by so quick, he’d only been able to read the name before it was drowned out in other death messages just like it. He didn’t need to scroll back up to know what he saw. No. _Surely not..._

Things had been bad in the SMP, he knew. Bad and Ant were constant threats, it seemed everyday they took more territory, the vines that had once just been in inconvenience had covered the Nether portals days ago, coating the paths and interfering with communications for the past week, but still.

_Surely not._

He stands on shaking legs, stumbling over to his desk. He brushes aside papers to find it, a small metal compass, dented and rusted along one edge, maybe, but it was in fine working condition, it had worked just fine this morning. He picks it up with trembling hands.

Now, though. It just spins aimlessly.

He falls to his knees, and he cries.

-

Closer, two people sit, legs dangling off the edge of a crater, a faint mist of snow swirling around them. A man and a woman.

The woman, small, the two front pieces of her hair significantly lighter than the rest, is staring at her communicator, hand over her mouth. She scrolls back up frantically, and the message glares at her in bright yellow font.

Tommyinnit has _d̵͚̆͐́̌̽̿͌͆̎̏į̷̤͖̘͔̻͎̱̯͇̊̾͋̄̌͌̓ͅẹ̶̟̣̗͖̙̼͙̜̊ḑ̴͇̠̙̳̖͙̝͖͍̼̠̣̟̾́͐̋͋̉͌̍̎͘͝_

The man, taller, with glasses that glinted and caught the light of the setting sun, catches a glimpse of the screen over her shoulder, and laughs. It’s an ugly sound, loud and maniacal. It’s deafening in the frozen air around them, every bird and small burrowing animal immediately going silent at the noise. It echoes through the crater like it’s taunting her.

“So he's dead, then!” He cackles. “We didn’t even have to do it ourselves. Perfect!”

The woman does not move. Her breath puffs into steam in the air, but she cannot tear her eyes away from the message projected from her wrist. For the first time in a long time, she’s completely frozen.

The man claps a hand on her shoulder, and she flinches. “Oh c’mon, Niki. This is what we wanted, right?”

He was right. This had been what she wanted, before. She’s tried to lead that same boy to his death dozens of times, confident in her decision, then. That halo of blonde hair, those greyed-out blue eyes. She’d fought beside him, before. Just a few weeks ago when Antfrost and Badboyhalo revealed their plan to take over the SMP. Seen the fierce determination in his face, heard that laughter that always grated on her nerves.

He’d never laugh again, now. She’d never hear or see his face ever again.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, the fire in her stomach burning its way through her veins. All he did was cause problems. All he did was create trouble everywhere he went. He was the cause of everything.

Her hands shook as she tapped her wrist, and the message vanished. She smiled up at her companion, voice cheery and sugar sweet. “Right. It’s what we wanted.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

-

On the other side of the server, a woman with thick, curly white hair and a knights armor stands on a dock.

It wasn’t much of a dock, anymore. Not with the red vines curling up and around the rotting wood. She knows what it used to be, though, and when you’re looking out over the ocean and away from the land, it’s easy to imagine that what lies behind her is something beautiful, and not destroyed and choked in crimson.

She’s already seen the message, and brushed away her tears. She lets the grief burning in her chest harden into steel. There will be time for crying soon, but not now. There are things to be done.

She turns back, the golden light of sunset catching on her face, in her hair, burning in her eyes. She looks like a soldier readied for battle, and in many ways, she is.

She’ll be hunted if she goes back. Antfrost and Badboyhalo are ruthless, the strength the egg gives them makes them unbeatable on her own. They’re not the only threats, either, she knows for a fact they’ve converted others to their side, by force if they didn’t come willing. She’s seen first hand what the egg can do to someone unwilling to join.

But still, she must.

She pulls her sword from her scabbard and holds it in a deadly grip. The expression on her face is nothing but steely determination, and there’s a fire in her eyes, now. A resolve.

She has a friend to save, and a son to avenge.

-

Far, far away, in a lonely cottage in the middle of a tundra, a retired soldier sits at a table. He’s cleaning a sword.

He feels his communicator in his wrist buzz, and he taps it to bring up the screen. He doesn’t bother reading more than the name, the voices in his head fill in rest. They all seem to scream out at once.

Some voices are sobbing, Our brother! Baby brother! Others are screaming, Traitor! He deserved it! Some whisper, some shout, some just cry and others just shriek. The constant background noise of his life.

He shakes his head, once, twice, and their wailing quiets. It doesn’t stop, it never does, but it lessens.

He sighs, setting the sword on the table. He looks out the window. Snow drifts in thick clumps to the ice covered ground. Philza had gone to check on the turtles a little while ago. He hadn’t come back yet.

He grunts, a boarish sound, turning his gaze back to the sword tilting his head to the side as he examines his handiwork. The diamond sword glitters like new, shimmering with enchantments. He doesn’t bother fixing the stubborn notch near the tip, it gives it more personality, he thinks. Phil says so too. The messy lettering inscribed on the hilt reads Orphan Obliterator.

If he’s not back soon, he’ll go find him.

He picks up the sword and rag again, but he barely gets through the first wipe before there’s a scream cutting through the air. He’s moving before he knows what he’s doing, holding the shimmering blue sword in a deadly grip as he barrels out the door and into the snow, snarl on his lips.

The sound had come from the stables. His mind immediately jumps to his father, dead or dying, and he runs, leaving hoof prints in the snow behind him as he goes around the house.

He expects to find a murder scene, blood painting the ground, someone to fight, someone to kill, he finds none of that. He doesn’t find his father. He finds a ghost, crying and wailing as he clutches a blue sheep, staining it bluer with his tears.

He freezes in his tracks, hesitating, and looking for all the world like he’d rather turn on his heel and go back inside than deal with this. He’s never been good at comforting. His hands were large and scarred, made for holding weapons and throwing punches. He was not a gentle man.

He couldn’t leave his dead brother here, though. He was not a cruel man, either.

He moves slowly, putting his sword in its scabbard and unlatching the gate. He latches it closed behind him. He approaches his brother with open palms, murmuring condolences as he settles beside him in the hay. His brother doesn’t even spare him a glance, the words he’s muttering into the sheep’s pelt too muffled and choked through with grief to make any sense. He runs a hand over his shoulder, but the hand just goes right through.

This seems to rouse him, though, and he looks up. His eyes are wide and glassy, blue tears streaming down his face, lips trembling. “T-Techno. It’s not true, is it? He’s not… It’s not _true.”_

The retired soldier doesn’t respond, he doesn’t know how. Quietly, he wishes his father was here instead.

The ghost takes this as an answer anyways, and his face screws up again as he lunges forward, wrapping his cold arms around his twin brother as he wails.

“Not Tommy.” He sobs into his chest. “Not my baby brother, not _Tommy.”_

There’s nothing the other man can say to comfort him, so he says nothing. He shushes him softly, holding him in his arms like he used to when they were little. He’s ice cold in his grip, trembling like he’s about to fall into pieces, and he can’t get a solid grip on his back without his hands going right through his sweater, but he tries.

He tucks his twin brother under his chin, blocking out the wailing of his chat as he closes his eyes. They stay like that until their father finds them.

-

Only a little ways away, trudging back through the snow from the aforementioned turtle farm, is a man.

He’s not very tall, dressed in a black cloak, blonde hair whipping about. He has to hold his hat with his offhand to keep it from flying away. You can’t see his wings like this, tucked away out of sight underneath his cloak to hide them from the wind, but they’re there.

He takes a break, breath huffing out in smoke as he catches his breath. It was snowing now, just barely, but he’s willing to bet anything it’ll turn into quite a blizzard later. He’s dressed for snow, maybe, but not for that kind of cold.

The incessant buzzing of his communicator surprises him, and he pulls back his sleeve to tap at his wrist. He thinks it’s a message from one of his sons, or something like that. A warning from his oldest to get home quickly.

It is a message from his son, but not the one he wants.

He falls to his knees in the snow, cold seemingly forgotten as he covers his mouth with a shaking hand. He wants to cry, to scream out on grief for the loss of another one of his sons, but he can’t. All he can do is wheeze softly, trying to force air back into empty lungs.

Even if he could cry, he doubts that he has the right.

-

There’s a ghost in the stables of the cottage in the Tundra. He spends a lot of time there.

He’s petting his pet sheep when he feels the buzz of his own communicator. He almost doesn’t even notice, face burrowed in the soft blue fluff of his beloved pet. He can’t feel his warmth or pet his wool properly, maybe, but it’s the thought that counts.

He pulls back, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as he looks at his wrist. He doesn’t get many messages nowadays.

He taps his wrist and the screen pops up, the yellow font of a death message glaring down at him. It’s only there for a second before it’s drowned out in other messages, signs of death, others yelling in the chat, but he’s always been a fast reader.

The sound that comes out of him is inhuman.

A wail of grief loud enough to be heard from miles around, ear splittingly shrill and heart wrenching, as if it had been him that was stabbed instead.

His tears are blue and flow fast, coating the hay underneath him, and then the fluff of his pet when it snuffs closer to comfort him. He clutches desperately at the fur, shaking with every sob and unable to keep himself upright in the force of the grief he feels.

The entire cabin seems to shudder as the door is slammed closed, and he hears the quick crunch of hooves feet in the snow, but he can’t lift up his head. His sheep baa’s softly at him, looking at him mournfully, but all it does it make him cry harder.

He feels another person get closer, and he knows who it is without looking up. He mutters into the sheep’s wool, apologies, things he wished he could say to his baby brother, but they’re lost to everyone but him.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, warm, heavy. He looks up. “T-Techno. It’s not true, is it? He’s not… It’s not _true.”_

The retired soldier, his twin brother, is looking at him. His gaze is dark and sad, a mournful look that doesn’t suit him at all. He’s seen his brother look at him that way before only once, and he knows exactly what it means.

It’s enough to have him moving forward, throwing himself into the arms of his twin with a wail. “Not Tommy!” He sobs, clutching at him desperately, frantically, as he falls apart in his arms. “Not my baby brother, not _Tommy.”_

His brother shushes him softly, and he responds with a whimper that breaks into another round of tears. The grip on his back is warm and gentle, it’s familiar. His twin had always run hot, and he clutches furiously at his back, welcoming the warmth. He’s trembling so hard he feels like he’s going to break apart with the force of it, shattering like glass on the stable floor.

He won’t remember this, soon. And he’ll live through this grief a hundred times over.

He’ll wail like that every single time, fall to pieces over and over again with every time he forgets and then is reminded. It’s never as bad as the first time, though.

They stay together until their father joins them. By then, he’s already forgotten.

-

Somewhere, a man cloaked in green leans against a tree.

The armor over his green clothing is battered, just barely shimmering with the enchantments underneath. It doesn’t suit him at all, and is definitely not his size, too broad in some places, too narrow in others. There's blood coating the inside. The sword at his hip is meant for someone much smaller, the balance all wrong for his statue. There’s blood on the handle.

There’s bits of netherite block in his blonde hair, ash coating skin and digging into the cuts across his exposed face. His wrists have been rubbed raw, and he’s breathing like he’s been running for miles.

He looks at his communicator. Taps it twice.

The screen comes up and he swipes, the normal interface dissolving into a mess of code. He analyzes it with poison green eyes. He knows exactly what it says, what it means, though anyone else that reads it would be completely lost. Only admins like himself are adept at reading code.

It helps that he was the one who typed it out.

The grin that cuts across his face is cruel, and his eyes flicker over the lines, reading them for the hundredth time since he wrote them, just minutes ago. He’s never been good at keeping his emotions off of his face.

Removing the permissions that allowed Tommyinnit to stay in this server was child’s play, coding it so that he wouldn’t end up in the general hub when he was kicked was harder, but doable with some research.

Exiling him had been a careful decision, moving the chess pieces into the right places. Of course, Tommy managed to screw everything up again, but for a little while there, he was just where he had wanted him. Pliant, someone that could be molded into something more useful. If he hadn’t gone running off to big brother Technobalde…

This time would be different.

He can’t help the victorious cackle that erupts from his mouth, even as his legs finally buckled from underneath him. The code broke into static and dissolved as he slid down the side of the tree to the ground. Even then, he laughs.

He’d be alone. He’d have to find him first, of course, but there are hundreds of unpopulated private servers he could have ended up in. If he died from his wounds, he’d just respawn. There was no rule about three canon lives outside of this SMP.

No one would come looking for him, the distorted death message should be enough. Meanwhile, he’d finally have something he could use to his advantage. The perfect hostage, the perfect weapon.

The sun setting in front of him painted him in red, staining his clothes and face the color of blood.

this time, he’d win.

-

_Somewhere completely different, Tommy opens his eyes._


	2. The Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, loves. A few things before we begin:
> 
> First, you'll notice this fic now has the tag "Graphic Descriptions of Violence", it will be in effect for the rest of the fic. I wasn't expecting to this fic to be so bloody, but that's just how it goes, I guess. Please read the trigger warnings. If you want to skip a chapter and would like a chapter summary, just ask!
> 
> Secondly, this fic is now eleven chapters long, I ended up having to split this chapter in two. The tentative updating schedule is every three days, but that's always subject to change as I am currently in school.
> 
> Finally, this fic takes place early-mid season 7 of hermitcraft. I haven't watched much of it so please forgive me if I contradict the lore, or if things aren't accurate. 
> 
> That's all for now. I hope you enjoy the chapter. Comments help keep me motivated, so please keep leaving them.
> 
> TWs: Non-consensual touching (medical purposes), Non-Consensual drugging (Also medical purposes), Description of wounds and bruises, after effects of manipulation/abuse, threats of violence, swearing.

The first thing he notices after the pain subsides is the bird song.

He blinks, dazed, and stares upwards at the clear blue sky above him, thick oak trees swaying lazily in a summer breeze that catches his hair and brushes across his face. He can feel the sunlight soaking into his skin, warm and comforting. 

He blinks again. No… No that’s not right.

The sky is never blue in the Dream SMP. Maybe if you go all the way to Techno’s, but once you get closer to the center of the server it turns from baby blue to gunmetal real fast. There’s always a healthy layer of smog in the air, the scent of ash and smoke thick no matter where you go. The ash is the worst part, it settles into everything, your skin, your hair, your clothes, you’re never able to get rid of that smell. Even the water was contaminated with it.

There hadn’t been a lot of forethought about the environmental impacts of setting off a shit ton of TNT over and over again. 

He sits up slowly, gently, hissing in pain as it pulls on the newly healed wound in his side. A benefit of respawn, atleast.

Wait.  _ Respawn? _

His eyes snap open. He throws himself into a sitting position, chest heaving as he pats down his front with shaking hands. That was his last life, that was his  _ last life.  _ That was definitely a canon death, no doubt about it, so he should be…. He should be  _ dead. _

But he doesn’t… He doesn’t  _ feel  _ dead. 

His hands don’t sink through his skin when he runs them over his exposed arms, his palms are clammy and sweaty, warm, and not the ice-cold he’d come to associate with ghosts. He was still breathing, fighting to force air down into convulsing lungs, he could definitely still feel pain, head pounding and side smarting with every shudder. He wasn’t dead.

He wants to laugh. He wants to scream. He  _ wasn’t dead. _

Maybe Dream just felt bad for him, or something. Maybe he needs him. The thought isn’t comforting, but it’s as good of explanation as any. He can’t find it in him to care. His side aches, every breath pulling at the newly formed scar. He breathes in, nearly choking on the clean, summer air. When was the last time he was somewhere with clean air? Exile? 

Trees dressed in vivid spring greens and dark emerald shadows dance overhead, birds in every color fluttering from branch to branch, chirping cheerfully. The grass underneath him is springy and soft, cool with dew. He grabs a handful, digging his bloodied fingers into the cool, wet soil underneath.

He falls back with a thump and instantly regrets it, hissing in pain as the movement yanks harshly on still tender scar tissue. Well, there’s no doubt about it now. He’s definitely not in fucking Kansas anymore.

He lets his eyes flicker shut, basking in the warmth on his face. His side is still throbbing, head pounding, something the sun glaring down on him didn’t help with in the slightest. Exhaustion pulled at him, limbs growing heavy as the adrenaline faded. He should move. He’s too exposed in a clearing like this, especially while injured. Easy prey to whatever mobs may be lurking in the shadows, or other players looking for easy pickings. Hell, he didn’t even know where he  _ was. _

Would they be looking for him?

Definitely. Sam… Sam would look for him, atleast. He’d find him eventually. Dream didn’t have Tubbo on his side, this time. There was nothing stopping his friends from rescuing him from exile number three. 

As far as locations go, this was a pretty good one. Dream must have traveled for days to find a place like this. How long has he been out? Just a few days? Longer?

He knows he should care, but he just can’t find it in him anymore. Not when there’s clean air in his lungs and sun warming his dirty, blood-stained skin. He hasn’t felt warmth like this is months, winters in the Dream SMP were long and brutal. He’d spent the warmer months shacked up in the arctic. 

It’s warm, here. So warm…

Not a bad place to be exiled to. Much better than Logstedshire and Pogtopia, definitely. 

It’s warm. Peaceful, too.

  
  


The silence is broken rather abruptly.

  
  


A twig snap, loud enough to make the birds overhead go quiet. He goes perfectly still, breath stuttering in his chest as his eyes snap open. There’s movement, rustling and mumbling, low voices carried in from somewhere behind his head. He’s not alone. 

He needs to get up. He needs to  _ run. _

He stumbles to his feet, biting on his lip to keep from calling out. He sways precariously, but manages to stay at least mostly upright, one arm clutching his side as he furiously searches the undergrowth. He can’t see anyone, not with how thick the bushes are here, but he can hear them getting closer.

A rescue party? Or had Bad and Antfrost caught up to him? Was it Dream?

His heart beats rabbit-fast in his chest, wide grey-blue eyes searching. His breath stutters. His wound is throbbing, the scar tissue still tender and stiff. He’s no use in a fight right now, hell, he can barely stand as it is. He’s a sitting duck, here. 

He’s only got one life left. 

The voices get closer. They’re unfamiliar, but with how much his head is spinning he’s not too worried about it. He catches a glimpse of a green jacket through the underground and makes up his mind. He bolts.

It’s not so much of a run as it is a stumble, biting his lip hard enough that it bleeds as he forces himself into a painful half-jog in the opposite direction. Branches whip at his face, vines and roots clawing at his feet, knocking him off balance even more, he’s barely gone twenty feet but he’s breathing like he’s been running for hours. He can’t seem to get air into his lungs, running on pure adrenaline and some animal instinct as he jolts forwards again, barreling through the thick undergrowth. 

He can hear them behind him. They’re calling at him, loud, barking voices blending together and feeding the panic burning through his veins. He can practically feel Dream’s breath hot on the back of his neck, that cruel, mocking laugh on his lips. He won’t be caught, not again.  _ He’s not going to go through this again- _

He trips. Of course he trips. 

He goes down in a whirl of failing limbs, crashing to the ground and landing hard enough that it knocks the air from his chest. His side erupts in pain and he yelps like a rabbit caught in a steel trap. He claws wildly at the ground, bloodied hands scrambling to try and find purchase to push himself upright, he needs to get  _ up  _ he needs to  _ run- _

He’s too late. He can barely hear them closing around him through the rushing in his ears, the thumping of his panicked heartbeat blocking out nearly everything but his own ragged breathing. He whips his head around, gnashing his teeth like a cornered animal. 

He will not let himself be caught again, he  _ won’t.  _ He won’t be a  _ fucking pawn again. _

A hand reaches for him, and when it gets just a little too close to his face for comfort, he does the only thing a cornered animal knows how to do. He bites.

He’s always had sharp canines, and they sink deep into the hand with a satisfying  _ crunch _ . The scream he lets out is music to Tommy’s ears, his mouth fills with the metallic taste of fresh blood and he refuses to let go until someone else pries his mouth away. He spits, snarling with blood stained teeth as someone, Antfrost, probably, holds him down, hands firm on his shoulders as he’s pressed to the dirt. 

They’re talking to him, trying to get him to calm down, he thinks, but he can barely understand them. They loom over him, figures blending together in a mess of colors. The one clutching his bleeding hand, Dream, or so he had thought, is talking too, voice loud and shrill with pain

He flinches back, pressing himself to the ground. A whine forces itself through his teeth at the noise,  _ god,  _ why are they so fucking  _ loud,  _ and the hands on his shoulders loosen their grip. Someone else comes into view, pushing the bleeding one away. 

They’re dressed in red, and that alone has him snarling again as they approach. “S-stay back! Get  _ away!” _

They pause. They don’t move any closer, but crouch down to be more at his level, palms in the air, a universal signal for  _ I mean you no harm,  _ but he’s not  _ stupid.  _ He knows better to trust anyone dressed in red. Even if he doesn’t recognize them, it’s a lesson he’s learned a hundred times over in the past few months. It’s not a mistake you want to make. 

They croon at him, voice disgustingly chipper and reach for him again, hand outstretched, palm up.

He spits like a feral cat.  _ “No!  _ Don’t touch me,  _ don’t you f-fucking touch me!”  _

The hands on his shoulders  _ burn  _ and he thrashes with all of the strength he has left to break free. It’s no use, they hold firm, the figure leaning over him doesn’t even budge, no matter how hard he tries to whip his head around to sink his teeth into his arm. 

He’s trapped. There’s nowhere to run. He can’t stand, he can’t crawl back any further, this is it. His chest heaves, heartbeat thudding furiously in his throat as he stares up at his pursuers, blinking furiously to try and get his vision to focus but to no avail. Their faces and bodies blend and smudge together, even the person dressed in red is nothing more than an ugly splotch. 

A panicked sound escapes out of him, somewhere between a whimper and choked off scream. 

_ This is it.  _

Someone moves too fast. He throws his hands up over his face, curling into a ball shrinking backwards as much as he can when he’s being held down like this. He squeezes his eyes shut. If they’re going to kill him, he doesn’t want to see it coming. 

A hand closes around his arm, another more panicked sounding voice murmuring in his ear, but he words just sound like static. He feels himself  _ fall- _

  
  


-

  
  
  


_ “-Alone. He’s terrified, Xisuma. He’ll just lash out.” _

_ “We can’t just leave him. He’s hurt. Whose base is closest?” _

_ “Mine.” _

_ “We’ll take him there, then. Can one of you fly ahead to get potions ready?” _

_ “I’ll do it.” _

_ “Perfect. I’ll carry him. We should hurry before he wakes up. Stress, can you-“ _

  
  


_ - _

There’s someone touching him

He blinked dazedly up at the stone ceiling, everything floating in and out of focus. There’s a figure leaning over him,  _ touching him _ , wrapping bandages around his arms and muttering to themselves under their breath.

Their hands are warm. He finds himself leaning into the touch.  _ Warm.  _

_ “Oh,  _ you’re awake!”

The hands move to cup his face, but the touch isn’t warm and comforting anymore, it just  _ burns.  _

He knows that voice, that accent. He  _ knows. _

He’s trembling, now. Pressing himself back into the bed as she leans closer. His voice shakes pathetically when he’s finally able to speak. 

“ _ N-Niki? _ ”

She responds, but her words are drowned out by the rushing of his head. His temples throb painfully, side screaming at him as he pulls harshly on the tender skin, but he’s running on pure terror at this point, so he barely feels it as tries to scramble backwards. Her eyes aren’t the same, her face isn’t either, but her hair is close enough and that  _ voice.  _

The stranger in front of him morphs, kind eyes becoming hard and angry, lit with a terrifying kind of fire he’d never seen anywhere else. Her voice turns from saccharine sweet to ice cold as she moves forward, dagger in hand. 

“I’m  _ sorry.”  _ He sobs, shaking fingers clutching desperately at her hands, as if it’ll do any good to keep her from plunging it into his chest, “Niki- Niki  _ please _ don’t kill me, I’m- I’m  _ sorry.” _

She freezes. The look in her fiery eyes is conflicted, and he sobs again, his entire body shuddering at the force of it. Her hand is small and soft in his, empty, now. He holds it like a lifeline.

“I’ll do better.” He vows. “I won’t- I won’t cause anymore t-trouble. I… I  _ won’t.”  _

She hushes him, brushing another hand through his hair and he  _ melts.  _ “It’s alright. You’re  _ okay.” _

He swallows another sob, hot tears slipping freely down his face and blurring his vision, distorting her face far beyond recognition. Still, he tries to imagine her face, not hard and angry, but soft. Gentle, like it used to be. A warm smile, light dancing in her eyes. The smell of fresh-baked cookies and vanilla clinging to her skin.

_ “I’m s-sorry.”  _ He stutters out again, eyes falling shut as her fingers scratch gently at his scalp.

It’s the last thing he says before the darkness claims him.

-

  
  


There’s someone talking.

It's quiet, but it’s unfamiliar and the accent is… Strange. It’s enough to rouse from vivid dreams and smudged memories. He blinks open heavy eyes, vision spinning and blurred. Sitting in a chair a few feet away is someone dressed in green.

It’s not lime green. It’s a darker, forest green. A familiar green, a  _ safe  _ green. Sam.  _ It’s Sam. _

He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a hoarse cough. It jostles his ribs and he  _ winces _ , curling pathetically around his injured side, a high pitched whine slipping through his teeth.

Sam is at his side in an instant. His voice is unfamiliar, but his hands are steady and strong as he helps him sit upright. Tommy lets himself be moved, leaning into the hands and staring dazedly at Sam’s green hoodie. He’s not wearing his chest plate, so they must be safe. He’s always safe, if he’s with Sam. 

A bottle is pressed into his hands, a potion. 

Sam helps him drink it, bringing it to his cracked and split lips. He trusts Sam, he wouldn’t give him anything that would hurt him. He was his friend, his protector.  _ He trusts him. _

It tastes like wild cherries and thrums gently on his tongue, soothing the back of his throat as he obediently swallows it down. Sam takes the empty bottle from his clammy hands and pushes at his chest until he’s laying back down again.

He doesn’t fight, melting against his hands. He’s glad Sam’s here, he thinks sleepily. He missed him. 

He’s out as soon as his head touches the pillow.

  
  


-

  
  


The first thing he notices is the bed he’s lying on.

He shifts to the side, nuzzling happily into the soft pillow underneath his head. When was the last time he’d slept in a bed this soft? The spare bed in Sam’s base was awful, scratchy wool sheets, shitty springs, Sam promised he’d get around to fixing it, but he never-

_ Wait a minute. _

It comes back to him in flashes. The war. Red. A sword slipping cleanly between the kinks in his shitty armor.  _ Dying.  _

A meadow. Sun. Birds. Running. Being chased, being  _ caught- _

He goes completely and utterly still.

Dream had caught him. Bad and Antfrost would have just killed him, Tubbo would be asleep on the bed beside him if he was here. If Sam had found him, the bed would be a lot shittier and Fran would be curled up by his feet. So, Dream had found him.

_ Again. _

He doesn’t dare open his eyes. He strains his ears to hear something,  _ anything,  _ but there’s nothing. No breathing, no movement. Just silence. He’s not sure if that’s comforting or terrifying. 

He opens his eyes just a sliver.

The room isn’t very big, but the ceiling is a good distance above his head, arching over him It’s all made of stone bricks, moss creeping in through the cracks in some places, and lit by low hanging lanterns, casting everything in a warm glow.The floor is spruce wood, weathered, but clean. 

He pushes himself up on his elbows to get a better view of the room. It's incredibly sparse, just the bed he’s lying on, a few chairs, one with a book lying on top. A table with a single, chipped clay mug. A door across the room from him, spruce, and shut tight. No windows, no carpeting. 

It takes him a moment to realize he’s not in any pain. 

A little stiff, maybe, but his head no longer throbs, and his side twinges only a little when he twists too far, it’s  _ nothing  _ compared to how it was, even after the respawn. 

Which means someone healed him. Which means someone had  _ touched him.  _

He looks down, thumbing the fabric of his shirt between his fingers . It’s clean, plain white and soft, unfamiliar. Someone touched him, someone  _ changed him,  _ and he can’t help but shudder at the thought. He pushes the thought away with a quick shake of his head, he can worry about that later. He takes a deep breath and lifts it to inspect the scar underneath. 

It’s ugly, but he was expecting that. A thick, bulging slash a little above his hip, right between his sixth and seventh rib. It must have been a really fucking thin sword, he doesn’t remember it even nicking the bone. It was a fatal wound, anyways, even if he had gotten medical attention soon after. Potions can only do so much, and he’s willing to bet anything that it would have hit an artery. It's a wonder he didn’t bleed out sooner.

He lets his shirt fall back over his ribs and moves on to his arms, prodding at the bandaging. They’re tinged in a faint, sparkling pink, regen potion, and stand out starkly on his bruised skin. It’s a shit wrapping job. He scoffs, fucking  _ Tubbo  _ could do a better job than that. They weren’t wrapped nearly as tightly as they should have been.

He’s never seen Dream wrap wounds before. Hell, he’s barely even seen the guy  _ bleed,  _ but still. It’s hard to imagine him sitting here, tenderly wrapping his bleeding arms, not pulling the bandages tight enough in fear of pressing on bruises. It’s a rookie mistake:

Besides, they weren’t anywhere near fatal wounds, anyways. Just scratches. Why were they wrapped at all, much less with  _ potions?  _ What a fucking waste, Dream wouldn’t do that. Not over some scratches. 

He’s just about to rip through them to re-tie when he hears it. Footsteps.

Fuck.

_ Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK- _

He jumps to his feet, staggering on the stiff limbs as he desperately searches the room for something he can use, heart in his throat. If it’s Dream he stands no chance, but if it’s someone else, he just might be able to take them by surprise if he’s quick enough. His gaze lands on the mug.

He snatches it with bandaged fingers, smashing it into the floor in one fell swoop. It shatters into a handful of jagged pieces, staining the spruce wood beneath with a dark, bitter-smelling liquid. He grabs the biggest piece, ignoring the stains growing on his bandaged hand as he holds it in a vice-like grip. 

It’s not very big, but it’s sharp. It’ll have to do. 

He jumps when the door handle jiggles, grip tight enough around the shard that it digs painfully into his skin. Every inch of his is tensed, ready to jump, to fight, to do  _ something- _

The door opens.

He holds the shard of ceramic like it’s a sword. clenched in both hands, feet a shoulder width apart.  _ “Don’t come any closer!” _

The person on the other side of the door squawks, jumping backwards and very nearly sending the silver tray of food they're holding smashing to the floor, but they stop like he wanted them too, staring at him with wide eyes. He’s expecting Sapnap, maybe George, but he doesn’t recognize the stranger on the other side of the door at all. 

He looks them over quickly. Young, not much older than him. Red sweater, overcoat. Could be hiding weapons, but there’s nothing showing. Both hands occupied. Brown hair fluffy and messy. 

They don’t look like a threat, but Tommy’s been fooled before. 

He fights to keep the tremble out of his voice as he snarls, “Put the tray down, keep your hands where I can see them or you’re going to  _ regret it.” _

They blink at him for a few seconds, completely bewildered, but don’t attempt to argue. They put the tray down carefully next to the door, two plates, both with toast, and two glasses of some kind of juice, and once the tray is down they keep both of their hands up, palms facing him. 

He gestures to the door with a jerk of his head. “Shut it.”

They step forwards, obediently shutting the door behind them as they do. They don’t lock it, but that doesn’t matter. A lock won’t do much good against Dream, anyways, and there’s nowhere to go.

He keeps the shard leveled at their neck as he steps forwards, each movement slow and careful. His eyes flicker from their hands to their face.  _ “Always watch the hands, “  _ Technoblade had told him, once.  _ “Don’t get distracted by their mouth. Keep an eye on the hands.”  _

He tries to channel his older brother in his demands, but with how bad he’s shaking, he’s not sure it gets the effect across.

“You’re going to tell me where I am.” He snaps.  _ “Now.” _

They blink at him, then smile, doing they’re best to come off as friendly and non-threatening, no doubt. He doesn’t fall for it. “Uhh, Mumbo’s base? I’m Grian by the way… It’s nice to meet you?”

He narrows his eyes.  _ Mumbo?  _ Who the fuck is  _ that?  _

Grian doesn’t stop there, though, inching backwards with every word as his voice creeps higher and higher, eyes darting back forth between him and the door. “ _ Real  _ lovely guy, super nice. How about I go get him, yeah? I’m sure he’d love to chat-“

“You’re not going  _ anywhere _ ,” he snarls, stepping forwards as menacingly as he can manage. “Not until you tell me where Dream is.”

Grian looks at him, cocking his head at him like a confused puppy. “Dream? He’s not white-listed here.”

Not white-listed? Not  _ white-listed?! _

He’s the admin of the entire fucking server, hell, he  _ created  _ the Dream SMP, if the stories were to be believed, of course he was  _ white-listed- _

An awful thought creeps in, poisonous and ice-cold, and his stomach  _ rolls _

_ Unless… _

_ “Where am I?!”  _ He demands, voice choked. 

His hands shake wildly even as he threatens the stranger, Grian, with the shard. Grian doesn’t look afraid, though. He doesn’t even flinch away at the desperation in his voice, though the smile on his face does melt into a different expression, something closer to concern. 

“This is Hermitcraft,” He says, voice even. He tilts his head again. “Or, that’s the server name. I think you’re a little bit confused.”

Some part of him wants to laugh. Yeah, no fucking  _ shit. _

You can’t leave the Dream SMP.

It’s rule instituted and enforced by Dream himself. Anyone could join as long as they had his permission, but once you did, you were stuck. He made exceptions for championships  _ sometimes,  _ but for the most part, it was just the rule. The only way to truly leave was to use up all of your canon lives, and even then there was no guarantee you wouldn’t just come back as a ghost. Stuck here even in death.

He’s heard of Dream kicking people, sure. It was a pretty popular rumor, the kind of thing whispered in Pogtopia all the time, a silver sword hanging over everyone’s neck.  _ Don’t do anything Dream doesn’t want you to. He can just kick you, you know.  _

But that was just a rumor, wasn’t it? He couldn’t really… Could he? 

No wonder he respawned. He didn’t  _ die,  _ he was  _ kicked.  _ Dream had  _ kicked him. _

But  _ why?  _ To keep him from dying? Was this some sort of sick power play, just him asserting his authority again by ripping him away from his friends all over again? Some sick attempt at repeating his exile in a way that’s more permanent.

_ Maybe he just wants to kill you.  _ Another part of him whispers.  _ Most servers don’t have the three-life rule. Here, he can kill you again and again and again and- _

“Are you alright?”

There’s a hand on his shoulder.  _ There’s a hand on his shoulder. _

He rips himself out of the man’s grip, snarling like a wild animal as he wrenches himself backwards and  _ away _ . 

_ “Don’t touch me!”  _ He snarls, baring his teeth like a dog. “Don’t you  _ fucking  _ touch me!”

Grian, to his credit, does look apologetic. He takes a step back and puts his palms back in the air, even though the shard Tommy had been threatening him with had long since dropped to the floor. 

“Sorry, mate.” He's smiling awkwardly again, but his eyebrows are pinched in concern.

He looks like he’s about to say something else, but just then, the door handle jiggles.

Tommy’s head snaps around to look at it, eyes wild. It wasn’t Dream, it  _ couldn’t  _ be Dream, but of course, that was the first thing his panicked mind jumped too. He’s weaponless, now, and outnumbered. He’s no use in a fight and there’s nowhere to run, no where to  _ hide-  _

No. Not nowhere. 

He exchanges one wide-eyed look with Grian before he’s moving. 

He doesn’t even process the fact that he’s moving until he’s on the floor, grabbing the shard in his wildly shaking hands before throwing himself down and  _ sliding.  _ It’s a tight fit underneath the bed, but he can’t find it in him to care, acting on some animal instinct as he folds his lanky body into something that’ll fit. 

He holds his breath, panicked eyes scanning the room, heart beating rabbit-fast in his chest. 

There’s no way he’d get away with this, there’s no  _ way.  _ Grian was still in the room, Grian  _ saw him,  _ what did he think was going to happen? How was a fucking  _ bed  _ supposed to save him from anything, what was he  _ thinking- _

The swings door open with an obnoxious creak. Footsteps. A pair of black boots come into view.

“Grian? What are- Wait a minute, where is he?”

He squeezes his eyes shut. He’s dead. He’s  _ so dead- _

A pair of worn, red sneakers scuff the floor anxiously. “I dunno. I came to give him breakfast, but he’s not here.”

His eyes shoot open.  _ Wait… What?  _

The black boots step backwards. “Oh, crap. I’ll go find Stress, we’ll start looking. He’s injured, he can’t have gone far, stay here in case he comes back, yeah?”

“Will do!” Is Grian’s chipper reply. The man in black boots doesn’t seem to notice the stress in his voice. 

The boots turn and leave quickly, door shutting firmly behind him. He waits a few moments, barely even breathing as he hears them clipping down the hall outside the room before disappearing.

It’s quiet for a few moments, the only sound his own heartbeat thudding in his ears, before the pair of worn red sneakers pad closer to the bed. 

A few moments later, there’s a pair of ripped jeans. Then arms. Then, finally, a pair of wide brown eyes meet his before he looks away. “Hey there.”

“Why did you do that?” He blurts out, the words slipping between his teeth before he can bite them back.  _ Him and his Fucking loud mouth.  _

Grian just blinks at him, tilting his head again with that same awkward smile, “You seemed pretty freaked out already, mate.”

Fair, but still. Grian and the other man had talked like they were friends, it would have been a lot easier to sell him out than protect someone he’d just met. Much less someone who had threatened his life just a few moments ago. 

...It probably would have been a canon death, too. Atleast, back in his home server. Dream always made the funny deaths canon ones. Who knows how many canon lives they have here. 

Grian shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard spruce floor. He props his chin up on his arms, still looking at Tommy with those big brown eyes. 

Tommy wasn’t the most comfortable himself. The bed wasn’t very big and he was pretty tall, even if he was skinny. Being curled up like this definitely wasn’t good for his back. Still, it felt a lot safer under here than it did out there. Much less exposed, especially now that he knew Grian wouldn’t sell him out.

“I need to go back.” He murmurs after a few moments of silence, staring intently at his own bandaged hands, worrying with the fabric. “My friends are in danger. It’s important.”

Grian considers this, humming softly as he thinks. “Well, I can’t help you there. You’ll to have to talk to Xisuma about server stuff, he’s our admin.”

Tommy’s breath stutters to a stop in his chest. 

The only other Admin he’s ever talked to was Dream, and look how  _ that  _ turned out, but still. He couldn’t just leave Tubbo to the wolves, he needed to let him know he was alive. He couldn’t let his best friend believe he was dead.  _ Again. _

He takes deep breath, squaring his shoulders the best he can curled up in a ball. “Can you take me to him?”

Grian winces. “I’m not sure… You’re still pretty hurt, maybe we should wait a bit? Maybe get you another regen potion? You still look pretty stiff, so I’m not so sure about-“

_ “Grian.”  _ He interrupts, looking him in the eyes this time. He takes another shaky breath. “Please.” 

Grian caves almost immediately. “Alright.”

Then, he reaches out a hand. Tommy flinches instinctively, hands coming up to shield his face, but the hit never comes. He stares at the offered hand warily from behind his arms, like it’s a wild animal that might bite him if he gets too close.

Grian smiles reassuringly, and doesn’t move the hand away. He wiggles his fingers. “You need some help getting unstuck, mate?”

He hesitates, looking warily from Grian’s hand back to his face. There’s nothing hidden in his expression, no angry fire in his eyes, no tension in his shoulders. Just a dumb smile and an out stretched hand. 

Hesitantly, slowly, he reaches out his own bandaged hand, and takes it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% happy with this chapter, but nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed. We'll be seeing more of the Hermits next time, so I hope to see you then. Stay safe. 
> 
> -Matches


	3. An Interlude, I of II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said we'd be meeting more of the hermits this chapter? I lied. Lets check on things back in the SMP, shall we? 
> 
> Tws: Grief, mourning, Injury, Mentions of Surgery/Wound Treatment, Animal Death (for food), Probably a little too much detail about how to prepare a rabbit to eat, Blood, Threats Of Violence. 
> 
> Enjoy!

There’s a young boy sitting at a president's desk. 

The suit he’s wearing is too big for him, rumpled and ripped in a few places, in desperate need of a good wash. He’s been sitting at that desk, head pillowed in his arms, dazedly watching the snow fall outside a nearby window, for three days, now. He’s barely slept, it's clear on his tired, gaunt face. He’s barely eaten either. 

He doesn’t so much as blink when the door is opened. The figure that walks in is tall, stooping slightly to fit in the doorway, and hunched over like he’s trying to make himself appear much smaller than he is. It isn’t very effective. 

He’s carrying a tray, piled high with toast and a glass of fresh milk. It smells delicious, but the boy’s face screws up like he’s smelling raw sewage instead. 

The taller one is undeterred, stepping forwards with concern written all over his two-toned face, and shown clearly in the way his tail swishes anxiously from side to side. He walks over the desk in a few quick steps. 

“Morning, Tubbo.” He says softly, putting the tray down next to the boy’s, Tubbo’s, folded arms. “I brought you breakfast. We don’t have any butter so it’s just… Yeah. It’s still good though, I promise.”

Tubbo blinks at them, then shrugs. “‘M not hungry.”

The two-toned boy winces. “Well, you say that, but you haven’t eaten since… It’s been awhile, s’all. I  _ really _ think you should-“

“I  _ said  _ I’m not hungry!” The boy snaps back, slamming his hand on the table. The taller boy jumps, flinching at the sound. 

The anger on Tubbo’s face melts in an instant, and he slumps back into his chair, rubbing his fingers against his temples. “M’sorry, Ranboo. It’s just...I’m sorry.”

The other boy, Ranboo, smiles hesitantly. He puts a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, trying his best at comforting, but his touch is ice-cold. Tubbo leans into it anyways. “S’alright. You’re grieving, it’s okay.”

“Hmm.” Is Tubbo’s eloquent response. 

He’s out like a light in seconds, collapsed over the desk like he was before. Ranboo can’t help but wince at the sight, that  _ can’t  _ be good for his back, and who knows how many nights he’d spent asleep here at the desk. 

(Three. It’s been three.)

This boy hasn’t been around lately, flittering between his shack in the Arctic and roaming the edges of the main part of the SMP. Keeping an eye on things, it seems. Searching for stragglers, when he can. He never makes it more than a few feet into the crimson-infested wasteland before the voices grow too loud and he’s forced to turn back. 

He hasn’t found anyone else. 

The red vines grow every day, claiming more and more land. They’ve started to cross the path Tubbo had made from the SMP to Snowchester, it was only a matter of time before they claimed it, too. 

Still, he hasn’t checked in on his friend, and he hasn’t been there when he’s needed him the most. He has a lot to make up for, he thinks, mouth setting into a determined line. 

He pulls Tubbo to his chest carefully, lifting him in his arms as slowly and gently as he can. He’s much lighter than he should be, a frown pulls at his lips with the realization. He’d have to work on fixing that. 

The walk outside is a quick one, the Ender Hybrid flinching everytime a snowflake lands on exposed skin and melts there with a soft  _ hiss.  _ It must be painful, but he swallows it down with a deep breath and quick shake of his head, and moves on. The smaller boy’s home isn’t too far from his office, anyways. 

Opening and shutting doors is tricky while holding someone like this, but being blessed with long arms definitely helps, and despite his clumsy nature he opens the door with no problems. The air in the house is stale, and he purses his lips unhappily, quietly cursing himself for not checking up on his friend sooner. He brushes the boy’s hair from his face in a moment of tenderness before continuing on.

The bedroom is just as stale as the rest of the house, and seems especially washed out and plain with the snow drifting down outside the window. The bed was made, and hadn’t been touched in a while.

He sets Tubbo down just as carefully as he had picked him up, taking off his shoes and suit jacket, but not bothering with the rest of his clothes, deciding that his friend wouldn’t appreciate the gesture. The boy is completely unresponsive throughout the entire process, even while Ranboo is fidgeting with buttons and stumbling over untying his shoe laces. He’s cold, too. More than he should be. 

The taller boy unfolds the covers of the bed and tucks him inside with care, brushing long fingers over his cheek and wincing at the cold temperature. He finds another wool blanket in the closet and piles in on for good measure.

They were both teenagers. Children, really, and tucked underneath thick covers with hair falling in his face, the smaller boy looks even younger. 

The taller one takes a seat by his bedside, curling up in a chair and wrapping his tail nervously over his legs. He folds his arms over his knees, unable to tear two-toned eyes away from the steady rise and fall in the younger boy’s chest. As if looking away for just a moment, even, would cause it to fall still.

He looks  _ fragile,  _ laying there like that. 

The taller boy makes a promise, that day. Unspoken, maybe, but solid just the same. He’d stay with this boy, this young president with the weight of a county on his shoulders, and stand by his side.

He wouldn’t allow him to lose anything else

  
  


-

  
  


A little farther away, two people stagger arm-in-arm through a snowstorm. A man and a young woman. 

The man is bleeding, a gash just above his left temple, another in his side that he clutches at with a bloodied hand. Sword wounds. 

The woman holds him upright, hoisting his good arm over her shoulder and half-carrying, half-dragging him through the snow. She’s bleeding, too, but there’s a fire in her eyes, a desperation burning in her chest and through her blood. She would not falter. 

Their pursuers have long since left them behind, retreating, equally as injured, to the red vines that protect them. They did not follow them past the limits of those vines, stopping their chase at the edge of the snow biome, content that they’re prey would die before they made it to safety. 

The woman does not give up. She’s cold, the snow and ice quickly sapping what's left of her strength, exhaustion pulling at every limb as the frost nips at her face and the exposed skin of her hands. She’s not dressed for the cold, neither of them are. 

Still, she trudges onwards, step after staggering step. She would not falter, not after getting this far. 

“We’re almost there, Jack,” She mutters into her companions hair, “Just a little further.”

The man just groans, doing his best to carry his own weight, but his legs are buckling. Snow settles in his dark hair and on his eyelashes, and he blinks it away. 

The woman is tired of this, it’s obvious. She’s gritting her teeth to keep from passing out, forcing her body to keep moving towards the safety of Snowchester that she’s  _ sure  _ is just over that hill. Laying down in the snow has never been so tempting to her before. 

Privately, she wonders if this is karma. Some kind of cosmic revenge for trying to kill a boy just a little younger than her, of celebrating when he was finally killed, even if it wasn’t by her hand.

It’s been a few days since he died. A few days since they went into the main part of the SMP, looking for the people they’re missing, only now coming back, empty handed. 

Is this how he had felt in his own final moments? Alone and scared, desperately clinging to some animal desire to stay alive before falling victim to the heaviness that pulled at her own limbs? 

She regrets it.

She would not admit it. She’d snarl with venom dripping from her lips, baring her teeth like an animal with nothing to lose, if you asked. She’d deny ever being fond of the boy with a halo of blonde hair and eyes like the summer sky. A laugh that could wake giants.

She carries the weight of his death heavy on her shoulders, her own personal Albatross.

Even if she didn't hold the sword that killed him, she still tried. She would have led him to his death a hundred times over if that’s what fate declared his destiny to be. If everything had happened a little to the left, it would be his blood staining her hands instead of her own. 

She takes another step, gritting her teeth as her legs attempt to buckle underneath her. The man she’s supporting groans again, trying his best to help her along with his own injured legs. It’s not much use.

She looks up from her bloodied hands, up to the tree line in front of her. They’ve very nearly crested the hill, just a few more steps and they’d be there, and she squints to try and see anything through the falling snow.

_ There! _ Just through the tree line, the faint yellow glow of a lantern peers out from behind snow laden trees. A sob rises in her throat at the sight of it, the tidal wave of relief washing over her trembling form very and nearly bringing her to her knees. 

The fire in her chest turns to an inferno, adrenaline flooding her veins. She’s so close to safety, she can almost taste it on the tip of her tongue. Almost.  _ Almost. _

Her pace is still glacial, but there’s more of an urgency, now. Steps a little quicker, a little more forceful. A determined set to her jaw, fire in her eyes. She would not falter. 

“We’re almost there,” She mutters through gritted teeth. “Just a little longer.”

  
  


They do make it, in the end. Collapsing in a head in the nearest house with an unlocked door. It doesn’t take long for the rest of Snowchester to find them, a man whose skin glinted like gold, a boy with two-toned hair. Their injuries are tended too, their mild hypothermia treated. 

Her story is not over. Not yet. 

  
  
  


-

  
  


Farther away, hidden under crimson vines in a forest now choked with them, a knight lies in waiting. 

Her eyes flash in the dark, deadly and focused. A dagger tight in her grip as she stares down her prey from her hiding spot, crouched in the shadows. She shifts her weight back on her haunches, not making a sound as her eyes lock on her prey. It’s not quite close enough yet, but that’s alright. She’s patient.

The rabbit hops a little closer, tiny pink nose quivering as it sniffs the air. She’s downwind, she made sure of it, but she still holds her breath at the sight.

It doesn’t notice her, and goes back to snuffing at the ground, digging with tiny paws to try and find the new sprouts of grass hidden underneath the thick red vines that now coat the forest floor. It’s a pretty good sized rabbit, all things considered, and her legs tense in anticipation. 

It hops just that much closer, and she lunges. 

She kills it quickly, mercifully. It’s a tricky thing to kill something so small in a way that won’t completely ruin the meat, but she's had practice. She stabs it cleanly through the eyes in one swift strike, and it falls still. Dead before it even knew it was prey. 

She holds her quarry up by its front legs, and there’s satisfaction in the quirk of her lips and the lash of her fluff-tipped tail. Yes, it would do nicely.

She starts the trek back to camp with her head held high, softly whistling a tune as she walks. She’s not afraid, here. Acolytes of the Egg rarely ever travel this far out from the center.

The rabbit was just what they needed. It’s the biggest she’s caught since she came looking for her friend, nice and fat. She’s never been much of a cook, but this past week has been a sharp learning curve for everyone involved, so she makes due with the skills she has, polishing them along the way.

If the others are even half as successful with their own hunts, they’ll be set for a atleast for a few nights, atleast. 

The fur would make good lining for boots, if she can figure out how to skin it properly. The legs could be cooked and eaten, of course, the spare bits turned to stew with the vegetables from the meager garden they’ve been able to start. She’s sure the tendons could be used for something, bowstring, maybe? She could turn the bones into knives, spoons, forks, or even arrowheads, if they get desperate. She’s never been a fan of bone arrowheads, too fragile, and it takes forever to dry them out, but they’re easy to sharpen, and work well enough in a pinch. 

She’ll make sure none of the rabbit goes to waste.

She vaults over what used to be a wall with a sweep of her legs, clearing it easily. On the other side, hidden by climbing vines and looming, ruined structures, is a church. Atleast, it used to be.

The Church Prime has definitely seen better days. It’s walls are crumbling, once beautiful stained glass windows now smashed into gaping holes, the once sturdy quartz walls now broken and cracked. It’s roof is broken and completely gone in some places, leaking horribly when it rains. The back wall is pretty much gone in its entirety, leaving the back half of the church completely exposed to the open air. 

Still, it was safe. It’s walls still stood firm and strong, the fountains inside still running clear with holy water. Even some of the flowers had remained, the only color vegetation that wasn’t red for miles around. 

It was the only part of the entire SMP completely and utterly untouched by the crimson.

The vines stopped twenty feet or so from the walls, and never came any closer, even as they piled thicker and thicker around the edges. Ant and Bad refuse to get anywhere close to the holy lands, even the parts that were already corrupted. It was a safe house in the middle of enemy territory, an oasis running clear and sweet in a desert of crimson

Her hooves touch down on fresh, green grass, and she revels in the feeling. With the twilight sun setting on the back of her neck, she feels more at home here than she had anywhere in months. Especially once she catches sight of the man leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, soaking in the last rays of sunlight with his head tilted back. 

She starts towards him with a shout.  _ “Sam!  _ What are you doing up? You’re supposed to be resting!”

He rolls his eyes, batting away her hovering hands. It’s hard to tell his exact expression from behind the gas mask, but the look in his eyes is endlessly fond, googles pushed up in his hair. 

“I told you yesterday, Puff. I’m  _ fine.”  _ He responds, voice gravelly but just as fond as his eyes, which widen considerably when he catches sight of the rabbit she holds so proudly. “Nice catch!”

She grins at him, all teeth. “Thanks. Are the others back yet.”

“No.” 

She hums in response, trotting past him into the church, and he pushes off the wall to follow her inside.

Their set up isn’t too impressive, but it’s functional. The fountain in the middle makes good drinking water, coming with the added bonus that it helps keep the vines from speaking to you or trying to burrow their way into your skin. The roof may leak sometimes, but it does a pretty good job at keeping them dry. If you swept out the lingering film of ash that settled on the floor and dusted away the spiderwebs, it would be pretty homey. 

They’ve pushed most of the pews to one side, packing them with salvaged beds and blankets to make a sleeping area, more of one big nest, really. There’s not much privacy, but there are a few chests with names scratched into the wood for personal belongings, a single enderchest glowing softly in one corner. 

The other side is a med bay, torn, unuseable sheets hang from the broken ceiling around a few of the most comfortable beds, barrels packed with potions, salves and bandages along the far wall. The breeze blowing in from where the wall has crumbled away causing them to sway softly. 

The back of the church is the most ruined, wall crumbled away completely, the ceiling shattered and lying about in broken bits of quartz and large chunks of stained glass. There’s a fire pit with a few broken pews surrounding it to act as chairs, the open roof providing ventilation for the smoke, and a small carrot and potato farm growing in one corner where the flooring has been pulled away, exposing dark soil underneath. 

It’s not perfect, but it works. Functional.

Her gaze catches on the curtains, and she frowns. 

“Has he woken up yet?”

Sam shakes his head, following her line of sight to the curtains. “Just long enough for me to give him another potion.”

She sighs, shaking her head sadly before continuing on the back of the church. “Check on him, yeah? I’ll start cooking.”

He dips his head, then turns back to the med bay. There’s a limp in his walk, barely noticeable if you aren’t looking closely, but it’s there. He favors his right foot much more than his left, these days, and just the barest hint of bandages can be seen around his left ankle, where his pants had torn away. He brushes aside the torn sheets and disappears as they swish closed behind him. 

The knight pauses for just a moment, watching him go with sad eyes, her earlier pride momentarily forgotten. She comes to herself with another shake or her head, sending her thick curls tumbling from where she’s pulled them back from her face, before she’s moving again towards the fire, mouth set in a determined line. 

Preparing the rabbit is a methodical task, one she’s done before and loses herself in easily. Strip the skin and fur, divy it into sections with careful chops of her knife, cleaned beforehand, of course. Boil water in a crudely made iron pot while the meat roasts by the fire, add in the bones and what little spices she can find on hand once it’s hot enough to make bone-broth for the stew. 

The legs would make good jerky, and would be dried and salted, stored for later. She focuses on the soup, now, chopping potatoes and carrots to add in later to the broth. The smell of roasting meat fills the church, drawing her companion out from behind the curtains. 

He makes his way over to her, settling on the broken pew beside her, watching her work. The firelight catches on her face and in her eyes, and she doesn’t look up from the carrot she’s chopping as she hands him a potato to skin. 

He huffs, but takes it, unsheathing his own knife to begin the task. They settle into each other’s spaces easily, shoulders and legs brushing as they work. They’re not lovers, even though they have the same wordless communication, the same disregard for each other’s personal space. No, they’re not lovers, but they are exceptionally close.

A special kind of bond is formed between two people when they’ve seen each other at their lowest, hoisting each other up from rock bottom over and over again. They’ve spent many nights sobbing into each other’s shoulders, bodies trembling with nightmares and visions of things they can’t seem to shake away. 

They help each other. They lighten the load of the world that’s balanced evenly across their shoulders, and as they soldier onwards, they do so together. 

It’s peaceful, here in the church. No crickets chirp outside, no birds sing their night songs as they settle in to sleep. It’s silent out in the wasteland, but there’s noise, here. The gurgling of the waterfall, the crackling of the fire, the rhythmic sounds of chopping and water burbling in a metal pot. The warmth from the steady blaze and of the friend pressed to her side is comforting, and she leans into it with a contented sigh. 

The peace doesn’t last, of course. 

A two sets of pounding footsteps crash through the silence, a victorious whoop filling the air,  _ “We’re eating good tonight, boys!” _

The knight turns in her seat. Standing in the arched doorway of the church is a Fox Hybrid, teeth bared in sharp-toothed grin as he holds another rabbit up by its ears. Over his shoulder is another man, a little more than a teenager, really, who’s smiling just as proudly and holding a smaller rabbit of his own by its front legs. 

The knight grins, beckoning them forwards with a toss of her head. There’s a fierce pride in her smile, in the way she sits upright, puffing her chest as if she’d caught those rabbits herself. They’d eat for days with a haul like this. 

“Well done!” She praises them, and they settle around her, sitting on their own pews and pushing each other, laughing and bickering like children. 

Sam nods his head, humming softly in agreement, but he doesn’t voice his thoughts, caught up in his own task of peeling a rather stubborn potato. Caught up in their own conversation and roughhousing, they barely seem to notice. 

The knight points at their rabbits with her knife, “You remember how to skin it, yeah? Just like I showed you. Try not to make too much of a mess with the fur.”

The younger boy groans, the little slime clinging to his shoulder jiggling as he falls backwards dramatically, “But Puffy _!  _ That’s gross!”

“You either help with dinner, or you don’t get fed.” Is her response, said with the confidence of someone who’s said the same thing many times before. 

He groans again, but hops to it when Sam shoots him a look, raising an eyebrow. Puffy just laughs at him, shaking her head. 

The Fox Hybrid, Fundy, has no trouble with his own task, ripping into his rabbit with his own knife, eyes flashing. He’s not as gentle with the fur as Puffy would have preferred, and she winces at the sight, fluff strewn over his pants and clinging to his shirt, scattered to the floor. A waste. The younger of the boys, Charlie, is atleast more careful, though his disgust shows on his face when he gets to the meatier bits. 

Soon enough, the work is done for the evening. The soup bubbles happily over the fire, and Puffy begins scooping it into wooden bowls as the others laugh and joke around her, filling the empty church with mindless chatter that warms the air between them and better than the fire. Even Sam chimes in from time to time, giving his two cents when necessary. 

Fundy nearly spills his bowl when its pressed into his hands, ears pricked in interest. “Wow, Puff. This smells great!”

Charlie nods eager in agreement, mouth already full, and she laughs, a full bellied sound. “I’m glad you think so. Now eat before it gets cold!”

He doesn’t have to be told twice, and digs in, tail swishing happily from side to side. She turns and presses a bowl into the hands of her companion, who takes it with a polite dip of his head, bringing it to his lips with a smile. 

She takes her own bowl last, not even bothering with a spoon and drinking it as-is, taking a careful sip of the salty broth. Her eyes widen at the taste, and she wastes no time drinking the rest of it, tail-tip swishing in satisfaction at her own cooking. It’s the best she’s made so far, she’s certain. 

The Fox Hybrid is already going for seconds by the time she’s halfway done with her first bowl, but she doesn’t chastise him for it, rolling her eyes good naturedly as he slurps it down. Charlie just laughs, batting at his shoulder. 

“ _ Fundy! _ Leave some for the rest of us, man!”

The other hybrid scoffs, swiping broth from his chin. “Relax, there’s still a shit-ton left. Who do you think I am? Tommy?”

  
  


Suddenly, everything goes very, very quiet. 

  
  


Sam drops his knife.

  
  


Fundy, realized that mentioning the name was a mistake as soon as it left his lips, and his ears press themselves tight to the sides of his head. He looks at Sam with wide eyes, cowering back at the dark expression on his face. He opens his mouth, to apologize, maybe, but Sam beats him to it.

He picks up his knife slowly, sheathing it back into his belt. Then, he stands up, and walks away.

A few moments of heavy, echoing footsteps against worn granite. There’s a swish as the curtains surrounding the med bay opened, and another swish as they close behind him. 

The cheerful atmosphere has frozen over in an instant, everyone else around the fire going silent, watching Sam leave with varying expressions. The silence outside the church creeps in like frost, settling into their skin. 

The smile has melted off of Charlie’s face like ice in the summer heat, as he stares over his shoulder at where Sam disappeared. Fundy looks stricken, glancing, wide-eyed, from the curtains back to Puffy. The knight herself just looks sad, setting down her bowl with a sigh, pride long forgotten.

“Fundy.” She snaps, disappointment sharp in her voice and heavy in her gaze. “You’ll watch your tongue about Tommy around Sam, do you understand me?”

He nods quickly, voice meek. “Yes ma’am.”

She stands, too, cloak swishing at her feet as she turns. “I’m going to go check on him. Make sure the fire doesn’t burn out.”

With that, she leaves them. With heavy steps, she makes her way back into the church, following the same path Sam had taken moments earlier, shoulders slumped and head bowed. The weight across her shoulders, though momentarily forgotten, was back. Heavier than before. 

She steels herself for a moment, straightening her shoulders, lifting her chin, before pushing aside the curtains and stepping inside. 

  
  


There’s a man laying in the bed, covered in the cleanest sheets they could find. His dark skin was ashen, cheeks hollow, brow dotted with sweat. His eyes were closed, they had been for days now. 

There’s bandages underneath his collar, lacing all the way down his chest, hidden by salvaged blankets. His arms are wrapped the same way, one leg bandaged, too. The wounds they cover are deep and extensive, remnants of a long, difficult surgery to extract the bits of the crimson vines that had dug themselves under his skin. There’s a faint pink stain and a shimmer to the bandages. 

Sam is sitting by his bedside, holding one of his hands in his own, absentmindedly playing with the wrappings. His shoulders are slumped, and doesn’t look up when she takes a seat on the pew beside him.

“Hey.” She murmurs, voice soft. 

“...Hey.” He murmurs back, voice low. 

She opens her mouth again to say something else. Something to comfort him, maybe, but the words won’t come out. 

There’s nothing she can say. She closes her mouth. 

Instead, she leans against his side. A warm, solid weight against him, an arm looping around his shoulder to pull him in close.  _ You are not alone _ , is what she wants to say, but can’t quite find the words. She tries to show him, instead. 

He freezes. He doesn’t move for a few seconds, stiff in her arms, and for a moment she fears she’s overstepped some sort of boundary. She’s just about to pull away when he melts into her grip, throwing his own arms tight around her, burying his face in her neck. His mask digs into her skin, his chest plate into her chest and stomach, but she can’t find it in her to care.

She hums to him, soft and steady. Rubbing circles on the backs of his shoulders as he leans just that much more into her grip. 

It’s not the first time they’ve done this, and it won’t be the last. Puffy will wake up from a nightmare a few days from now and won’t calm down until she feels his hands on her face and running through her tangled hair. He’ll see something that will remind him of Tommy a week from today and fall apart all over again, leaving her to hold him together.

Holding each other upright is a difficult task, but it’s one they take on, gladly. Everyone needs someone to lean on, someone to make the world steady again when they fall.

Even if he falls apart a hundred more times, the Knight will piece him back together again. Every time the Knight fails, the Warden will throw her arm over his shoulders, and push them both forwards. 

Where one stumbles, the other will hold the melody.

  
  


-

  
  
  


Not too far away from the Church, a man with golden wings hidden carefully under his jacket holds one of his fiancé’s in his arms.

They’re huddled in the ruins of what used to be someone’s house, but with the crimson vines staining the interior and warping the outside beyond recognition, it’s anyone’s guess as to who it used to belong to. The cobblestone walls provide only a little protection from the wind, and he shivers, clinging to his companion just that much tighter, burying his face into chestnut hair. He’s muttering something, soft and quick, unintelligible to anyone but him. It sounds a little like a prayer.

Footsteps. His head snaps up wide, terrified gaze scanning the shadows of the crumbling house, hands trembling as they clutch unto his lover’s hoodie. The footsteps, quick and light, pass just on the other side of the wall, and he holds his breath, watching the shadow pass just underneath what remains of the rickety wooden door. 

Every inch of him tenses. He’s not prepared to fight, it’s clear in the way he’s trembling, but he’s prepared to, if necessary. He bares his teeth into a cornered dog’s snarl, hands clenching desperately around the dagger at his side, gaze zeroed in on the doorway. 

The footsteps don’t pause, passing him completely until they fade from earshot. The sigh of relief he lets out is deafening in the silence, and he slumps back against the stone wall behind him, dagger forgotten on the floor. 

Another set of footsteps soon follow a few moments later, but this time he stays where he is, lips quirking into a smile. He knows those footsteps.

The door opens slowly, to keep it from creaking, and a figure appears in the doorway. Tall, dark hair, dressed in a ripped white tee over a stained black undershirt, thoroughly underdressed for the cold. He’s holding a sword in one hand and panting like he’s just run marathon, leaning on the doorway for support. The pale moonlight catches in his dark hair, illuminating his expression. 

His face is stricken, eyes wide and searching the shadows of the house desperately. Every inch of him melts with relief when his gaze lands on the two other men on the floor. 

He shuts the door as quick as he dares before he darts across the house, collapsing to his knees besides the other man and throwing his arms around his neck, tucking his head under his chin and burrowing his face in his hair.  _ “Christ,  _ that was close. I led him off the best I could, are you alright? He didn’t see you, did he?”

The smaller man shakes his head, clutching him as close as he can with the other man still pillowed in his lap. “No, no he walked right past. We’re alright.”

The other man eventually pulls back, reluctantly, looking over his fiancé’s as if checking for wounds, ghosting shaking hands over their faces and hair. Satisfied when he finds none, his gaze shifts to the chestnut haired man still lying in the smaller ones lap, eyes closed. They had been for quite a while now.

“Still nothing?” He whispers, keeping his voice low.

The response is just as soft, “No. not since last time.”

He frowns, running a hand gently through fluffy brown hair, to no avail. The man doesn’t miraculously wake. He presses a soft kiss to his forehead, anyways, before shifting to sit at his lovers side, tucking him under his arm firmly, holding him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. 

The smaller of the two leans into his touch with a sigh, melting against his side. He can feel his heartbeat racing through his skin when he’s leaning against him like this, and he knows his own is racing just as fast. He plays absentmindedly with the hair of the man pillowed in his lap, scratching gentle fingers across his scalp. He doesn’t so much as twitch, still and pliant as a corpse in his arms. Only the warmth of his skin and the steady rise and fall of his chest reassures his fiancé’s that he’s still alive.

It’s cold outside. Winters in the Dream SMP were always rough, ash-tinted snow coating the ground, frost spreading eager fingers across anything it can touch. Winter has barely even started, but you can already feel it in the air. 

It’s warmer here, though. There are blankets strewn across the floor, providing a little relief from the ice-cold ground. With one of his lover’s in his lap and the other with an arm wrapped securely around his shoulders, it’s even warmer. The only sound in the decrepit house is their gentle breathing. Safe. Atleast, for now.

His feet hurt from running, his back from binding his wings away with bandages, and eventually the remnants of an usable blanket, when the bandages became too precious to waste. His arms hurt from carrying his unconscious fiancé from ruin to ruin, staying on the move to keep from getting discovered. It’s exhausting, living like this, and it’s shown clearly in the bags under his eyes, the gauntness of his face. The gentle tremble in his cold hands. 

This past week has been hard on them. 

For now, though, he’s safe. The danger led away for a night, leaving them safe to get a full nights sleep for the first time in a while. It’s unlikely Bad and Ant would bother checking the same, ruined house twice. Especially on a night this cold.

He tightens his grip on both of his fiancé’s, and he lets himself sleep. It’s the last good night's sleep he’ll get in a while. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning on pushing this chapter back, but the next chapter got a little out of hand, so here's this while I continue work on the next one. It's the longest chapter so far! Puffy and Niki's segments really got away from me, I love writing them.
> 
> I hope you can forgive me for the Karlnapity at the end, I couldn't resist. Its a very minor ship, and their segments are completely skippable if its not your thing. 
> 
> Until next time, loves. Stay safe.
> 
> -Matches


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait.
> 
> TW: Language (Thanks, Tommy), Injury, description of scars (Not SH), aftermath of abuse and manipulation (dream sucks), Kind of a panic attack?

Everyone on this goddamn server is fucking  _ weird. _

Granted, he’s only been here for a few hours, and granted, he’s only really met a total of one person so far, but still. Just the fact that they haven’t killed him, much less wasted medical supplies on him and  _ hid him,  _ is enough for him to decide that if everyone’s this fucking weird, he better find a way home and  _ fast.  _

Grian leads him down a stone-brick hallway, chattering all the while. It’s  _ Tango  _ this and  _ Mumbo  _ that, about how  _ nice  _ this server was, about how  _ friendly  _ the players were. His chipper voice was making his skin crawl, so he ignored him. 

He’s scanning the walls, instead. Counting the doors and turns they pass and take, memorizing the route just in case. The lack of windows makes these hallways feel suffocating, stone walls close on every side, and he swallows back the claustrophobia that climbs up his throat. They’ll be time for freaking out when he knows he’s safe.

He watches Grian out of the corner of his eye. 

He trusts him, he’s decided. It’s not a thing given lightly back home, but he’s not on the Dream SMP anymore. He’ll take any help he can get in unfamiliar territory. 

Besides, Grian was nice to him. That usually only happens when someone wants something from him, that something usually being his last life, with only really one noticeable exception so far. He’s on edge, sure, but Grian didn’t really seem like the kind of guy who liked killing teenagers for fun.

(Then again, Niki didn’t look much like a killer either. Neither did Jack. Or Wilbur. Or his father. Or-) 

He doesn’t look like much, is what he’s trying to say. Tall, broader shoulders than him, maybe. There’s no limp to his gait, something not many people back home can boast, and there’s a roundness to his face and form that speaks of not spending many nights hungry. He watches his exposed hands carefully, tracking them as he waves them about while he talks, and though they’re calloused in a way that’s familiar, there’s not a speck of scarred skin visible. 

This is not someone who came from a place like he did, and the thought tastes sour. 

Still, there’s a small part of him, a part that he’d thought had been beaten out of him, that sings at the thought of having someone to trust again. The little kid that still missed his big brothers crying out for a hand to hold, or something. Someone to lean on. He crushes it down with a scowl and a quick shake of his head. Someone to lean on? What a  _ joke.  _

The only person he’d let himself lean on for support had watched him bleed out in his arms. 

So, the squashes that thought. Firmly. He’s  _ seventeen  _ for fucks sake, a really fucking far cry from the little kid he used to be. 

“-So I told him, ‘ _ Tango, I don’t know what you’re talking about! Who would steal your front door?’  _ And then he said, oh!” He stops, suddenly, and Tommy very nearly crashes into his back. “We’re here!”

He shoots him a glare, but he doesn’t seem to notice, gesturing instead to a door. Tommy’s gaze slides to it, looking it over warily. “...Where exactly is ‘here?’”

“Mumbo should be through there.” He chirps back, unhelpfully. “Since this is his base, he should know you’re alright before we go find Xisuma. The others have been looking for you, you know.”

Right. He swallows. Hard. 

...It’d be polite to thank the guy who’s letting him stay at his base, right? He might have to do a little bit of groveling, but he was used to that. The guy had saved him, so he  _ probably  _ wasn’t going to just turn around and kill him. Probably. Hopefully. 

Besides, this wasn’t the Dream SMP. His life-count should have started over by now.

He might ask for a favor, though. That alone has him shifting uneasily from foot to foot. He knows how favors work back home, an agreement to help them in battle, giving them a rare item, stuff like that, but here? He has no frame of reference on how they work on other servers, much less in a place this fucking weird. Hopefully he won’t be dragged into any more wars. A small price to pay to get back home, maybe, but still really fucking unpleasant. 

If Grian notices his hesitance, he doesn’t comment, giving him a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring. He knocks twice on the door, and when he receives no answer, he swings it open. 

The door opens into a rather impressive storage room. 

It stretches out before them, much bigger than he was expecting. The ceiling arches far over his head, nearly taking his breath away as he looks up into the open blue sky.  _ What the fuck? Is there just a giant hole? Who would do that?.  _

The stone brick floor is the same, jungle log frames creating shelves and housing what looks like hundreds of storage chests lined neatly up against the walls, organized with signs. The shelves seem to go on forever, creating a twisting labyrinth of a storage system that seems to stretch on forever from where he’s standing, but what is in reality probably only a handful of hallways, there’s even an enchantment table in the corner, thrumming softly with the magic it absorbs from nearby books. It’s elaborate. It’s  _ unnecessary.  _

He stares at the room with wide eyes, jaw dropped. What the fuck?  _ What the fuck?  _ Is this guy rich? How had this not gotten utterly destroyed yet, it must have taken  _ forever- _

Grian pops his head around a corner, yelling out with a hand cupped around his mouth. “Mumbo? You in here?”

_ “I’m over here!” _ Is the answering call from a few shelves away, and Tommy whips his head around to try and find the source of it, to no avail. 

Grian trots through the storage room without a care in the world, following the source of the noise. Tommy follows behind him much more cautiously, stepping lightly through the shelves and peering carefully around corners. Grian may be at ease here, but he sure as hell fucking  _ isn’t. _

His eye catches on something glimmering in the corner of his vision, and he pauses. Some of the chests are glowing a bit, he realizes, the shimmering of enchanted tools and glitter of gems and gold just visible through the cracks. He swallows hard and moves on. So the guy’s rich. Big deal. 

They turn another corner.

There’s a guy standing in the back, tap tap tapping away at his communicator, bent over an open chest. He looks absolutely fucking  _ ridiculous. _

_ Who has a mustache like that?  _ It contrasts sharply with the full enchanted netherite he’s sporting, some weird gray cape draped over his shoulders shifting with every slight movement. It’s a weird fucking cape, and doesn’t look like anything he’s seen before. Rich people shit, he guesses. It just adds to the whiplash. 

Grian walks right up to him with a bright smile. There’s not a hint of fear, despite him being completely unarmed, in contrast, and Tommy swallows the urge to grab him by the collar and yank him back. He clenches his hands into fists, instead, and refuses to look anywhere but the man’s hands, just in case.

“Mumbo, I’ve been looking for you!” Grian smiles at him, greeting him like an old friend. Hell, maybe he was. “I found him!”

The man turns sharply and Tommy-  _ No.  _ he doesn’t  _ cower,  _ he’s a big man! He’s  _ seventeen _ for fucks sake, and he’ll be eighteen in a few months, he doesn’t need to hide behind anyone. Shifting so that he’s just behind Grian’s shoulder isn’t  _ cowering,  _ it’s a  _ tactical advantage,  _ thank you very much. It’s not like the man looks threatening. His mustache kind of ruins whatever image he had been going for. 

He smiles, relief written clear on his face as he tries to meet Tommy’s gaze around Grian’s shoulder. “Hello there, mate! You gave us quite a scare there, huh? I’m Mumbo, it’s nice to meet you properly.”

He scans him warily, but there’s nothing hidden in that wide, welcoming smile. He’s not tense, shoulders relaxed, hands at his sides and not anywhere near his inventory. A trap would be unlikely, and it’s a bit hard to take him seriously, so he can’t find it in him to be suspicious.

“Tommy.” He extends a hand. “‘Names Tommy.”

  
  


-

  
  


From there, things go a bit smoother. Well, as smooth as they can get, for him.

They lead him deeper into the base, talking all the while. These new players, Hermits, they call themselves, talk  _ a lot.  _ There’s been a seemingly never ending stream of chatter between Mumbo and Grian since he met them, and there doesn’t seem to be any sign of it slowing down any time soon as they show him around the half-finished structure, laughing and monologuing as they go. 

He wants to protest, he does. Images of Sam’s blood-stained face haunt him everytime he closes his eyes, he needs to go back home, and  _ quickly,  _ but everytime he opens his mouth he’s gotten the same response.  _ We’ve pinged Xisuma, don’t worry. He’ll come around when he’s finished with whatever he’s doing.  _

In the meantime, he’ll just have to grit his teeth and bare it.  _ I’m coming, Sam. I promise. _

He shoves thoughts of Sam and home down, for now, and tries to keep up with the others and whatever conversation they’re having, only half-listening as he looks around the base. 

He tries not to let the shock show on in his face, he does, but he’s sure then can see it clear in the way he looks at everything like he’s never seen stone before. The base was fucking  _ huge,  _ one of the biggest structures he’s ever seen, right up there with Sam’s prison, and according to Mumbo it was only  _ half-finished.  _

It’s some sort of temple, he thinks. Or, it’s going to be when it’s done. It’s the biggest fucking build he’s ever seen, and he can only really see bits and pieces of the outline through windows. When it’s done, it’ll be absolutely  _ massive.  _

He makes the mistake of not watching where he’s going for a few seconds, caught up with staring upwards at the ceiling far, far above his head. His bare foot catches a piece of stone not placed properly, and the stumble has him folding like a stack of cards, pain lacing up his side like lightning. Fucking  _ ow.  _

So, he’s not as healed as he thought. Potions weren’t a catch-all, he knows. They were a supplement, not a cure. Still, the amount of fussing they do over him from then on is  _ outrageous,  _ herding him back to his room like an unruly pet and hovering all the while like he’ll fall apart any minute. 

He has to try really, really hard not to sink his teeth into their worried hands as they flutter over his shoulders. 

Mumbo swings the door to his room open, Grian still hovering anxiously by his side. “You didn’t rip anything, did you? Pop any stitches? Maybe I should-“

_ “Nope.”  _ He smacks his hands away with a glare. “I’m  _ fine.  _ Just moved a bit too fast. It’s fine.”

Neither of them look convinced, sharing a worried glance when they think he’s not paying attention. He scowls, shoving past them to go sit on the bed. He’s not a  _ child,  _ he knows how to deal with injuries, he’s been doing it since he was what, twelve? Thirteen? He knows what ripping open a half-healed scar feels like, too, and this wasn’t it. He huffs, pulling his feet up on the bed. They’d  _ definitely  _ know if he ripped open this scar, that’s for sure.

To his annoyance, they just pull the chairs from the tables over to sit with him, undeterred. Not even one of his sharpest scowls scares them off. 

Grian has the tray from earlier in his hands again, practically shoving it on his lap. “Here, breakfast. Might help you feel better, yeah?”

He takes it, not being given much of a choice in the matter. The toast is cold, now, but he’s never been one to be picky about food. He scarfs it down as fast as he can out of habit, and it’s just as salty and delicious cold as it would have been hot. Not to mention it had  _ butter on it.  _ When was the last time he had butter? It was a nuisance to make, you had to churn it for  _ hours,  _ and if you don’t seal it up properly it just goes bad anyways. He resists the urge to lick his fingers after it’s gone, crust and all.

The Hermits watch on with some sort of morbid curiosity, Mumbo looks like he wants to ask him to slow down but Grian’s handing him the glass of mystery juice before he can.

He takes a sip. Melon juice. Huh. 

He downs that quickly too, before Grian can change his mind and take it back. It’s sweet and tangy, and with how dry his throat is, it takes him seconds to drain the glass. It’s ice-cold, weirdly refreshing for something so sweet.

“Do you need another potion?” Mumbo prompts, once he’s finished. “That was a pretty nasty cut, let’s see, I’ve got…”

He trails off, Tommy watching on with wide eyes as he pulls up his interface, tapping away at the screen. “...A Healing Pot in my inventory, but I have Regen back In my storage room if you’d rather have that.”

He stares at him. What kind of guy just has potions in his inventory outside of battle? Not even  _ Technoblade  _ did that, blaze rods were getting really fucking hard to come by, especially once Ant and Bad cut off the nether portal. He hesitates.

...Was there going to be a catch to this? Was he signing away his soul by eating their food and drinking the potions they give him? His side twinges again and he winces, making a decision. He’ll be no use to his friends if he dies of a stupid stab wound. 

“Healings fine.” He eventually mumbles.

There’s more tapping, before a shimmering glass bottle is plucked out of thin air and pressed into his hands. He turns it over in his palm, watching the cherry red liquid bubble and swish as it moves behind the glass, tiny gold flecks shifting and catching the light as he turns it. 

He grimaces, but uncorks it, tossing it back like a shot and swallowing it all in one big gulp. It tastes a bit like the juice, but tangier, sizzling on his tongue before sliding, warm and bubbling, down the back of his throat. He screws up his face at the metallic aftertaste, sucking on his teeth to try and rid it from his mouth.  _ Bleh. _

It seems to satisfy the Hermits, though, who look on with encouragement written all over their stupid-looking faces. The empty tray is taken from him once he’s finished with it and put aside. 

He stretches out his arms, feeling the potion begin its effects as a warmth spreads over his wounds, centering on the larger ones, first. It doesn’t hurt, but the numb, buzzing feeling is irritating. He tosses his head in an attempt to clear it, shaking out his arms and legs. Just another annoying potion side effect.

He looks down at his hands, picking at the bandages on his arms in an attempt to avoid conversation. He can’t feel the potion there at all, must be healed over by now. He goes to unwrap it, but hesitates, the feeling of eyes on him uncomfortably heavy, watching him closely even as they chat casually to one another in an attempt to give him space. It doesn’t really work. 

There’s a lull in the conversation, and he interrupts quickly. “...Can you go get me more bandages. These need to be rewrapped.”

“Oh, sure!” Mumbo gets to his feet, leaving with a jaunty two-fingered salute. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Then, he’s gone, leaving Tommy and Grian alone. He hopes his sigh of relief isn’t too obvious.

He turns back to his hands, mouth set in a determined line. He wastes no time in ripping through the bindings, a task made infinitely easier by the already shitty wrapping job. He doesn’t bother saving the bandages, just tearing them apart instead of unwrapping them and letting them scatter on the floor like the world's shittiest confetti. 

He can see Grian wince out of the corner of his eye, and huffs. It’s just some scratches, thin, jagged things that barely even left scars. It’s what he gets from going on a jog through a briar patch. 

They’ve healed over quite nicely, the faint white scratches are barely even visible on his patchwork arms, blending in among bruises and other scars, burn marks and the straight, slashing ones that come from swords and knives hitting their mark. Some so faint he could barely pick them out, some dark, some wrinkled and pale, stark against his sun-freckled skin. Each one holding a different memory. He flexes each hand carefully, methodically moving each finger anyways, going over his usual procedure. There's no resistance, no pain, no stiffness. Besides the bruising, his arms are just like new. They won’t even need to be rewrapped.

He wants to ask why they bothered using a potion to dress the bandages. A normal salve would have worked just fine, the scars would have been a little less faint, sure, but still. You would have barely been able to notice them with all the others. 

The question is right on the tip of his tongue, but when he lifts his head to ask, he catches sight of Grian’s stricken expression, and stops. “...What?”

“Nothing!” He says, far too quickly. There’s a pause as he hesitates, gaze heavy on Tommy’s now exposed arms. With the bandages gone and the short sleeve shirt they dressed him in hanging off of his thin frame, his scarred arms are on full display. “It’s just… They don’t hurt, do they?”

Tommy grins, all teeth. “Nah. Not anymore.”

He doesn’t look comforted at that. If anything, he just looks… More concerned. He feels the grin slip off of his face. 

He folds his arms.

He’s never been self conscious about his scars, everyone in the Dream SMP had them in some form or another, and his were far from the worst he’s seen. It’s just proof that even though you went through some shit, you still came out swinging. Some of his fondest memories in Pogtopia were spent around a fire, trading memories and stories about their scars over Technoblade’s baked potatoes, laughing and joking. Trying to get the warrior himself to tell his own stories, to no avail, all set to the gentle strumming of Wilbur’s guitar.

But the way Grian was looking at them now, with something like pity in his eyes, had him wishing he had long sleeves to hide them with. 

It doesn’t last long, though. Soon enough the footsteps outside return, he recognizes the boots immediately. This time, they come with an echo.

He tenses. Was Mumbo being followed? Did he know? His head snaps to the door when the handle jiggles, shoulders tensing instinctively. It swings open with that same awful creak and in steps Mumbo, arms laden with bandages and an extra potion. Another person follows him in. 

He looks them over quickly. Armor, that same dazzling netherite everyone but Grian seems keen on sporting. Tall, but about the same height as Mumbo, built similarly too. A strange yellow and black mask covers their face, disguising their features, and making them look a bit like some kind of weird bee. He doesn’t know their name, but he knows what they are instantly. 

_ An admin.  _ This must be their admin.

“Tommy, this is XisumaVoid.” Mumbo introduces them with a smile and wave of his hand. “If you have any server questions, he’s the one to ask.”

The admin, Xisuma, speaks next, voice slightly echoed by the mask over his face. It's pleasant enough, cordial. Polite. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He’s on his feet before he’s finished speaking, stumbling a little to keep upright with the numbness in his limbs. He’s half tempted to bow, it wasn’t something Dream had them do, but if he was anything like that green bastard he might enjoy it enough to let him off easy. He can’t tear his eyes from the mask, the familiarity of it cold as ice under his skin. Finally, he’s able to rip his gaze away, staring at his boots, instead. 

Even with a mask, looking at his face could be seen as a sign of disrespect. He needs to play his cards right, here. He keeps his voice soft, as polite and meek as he can manage. 

“Hello.” He greets, trying to force his voice to be steady. “I uh, I think there was some sort of mistake. I’m not supposed to be here.”

_ Send me back, please.  _ He wants to beg, but he swallows the words back for now. He keeps his head bowed, gaze fixed on his shoes. 

Xisuma sounds thoughtful, he thinks, though it’s a little hard to tell. “I definitely would have remembered white-listing you, that’s for sure.”

Tommy feels his stomach  _ drop. _

It sounds like a joke, he said it like a  _ joke,  _ but the tone in his voice is lost as he focuses on  _ what _ he says. He clenches his shaking hands into fists, worried for a moment that his trembling legs will betray him, sending collapsing to the floor as the words and the threat he just  _ knows  _ is behind them register. He opens his mouth, to beg or plead or do  _ something,  _ but he’s cut off before he can choke out the first word. 

A tapping sound, and a quiet little  _ blip _ as the screen pops up, hologram suspended in the air. “Must have been a glitch. No worries, though. You can stay here for now while you recover, or I can just send you back now. It’ll only take a second.”

He blinks down at his feet, mind whirring so fast that he barely hears his next words, spoken softly and sincerely. “It’s really no problem if you want to stay, your injuries were severe, I’d understand-“

“Send me back.” He interrupts, voice trembling.  _ “Please.” _

Silence.

He’s sure the others in the room are staring at him, he can feel their worried gazes burrowing into his skin, but he’s staring determinedly at his shoes now, and refuses to look up. Dream never liked it when he met his gaze. Dream  _ definitely  _ didn’t like being interrupted. 

His breath shakes when he inhales, and his hands are trembling at his sides, still, despite his efforts to keep them still. For a good moment there he’s sure the man is going to refuse, or slap him across the face for the disrespect, but then, he speaks again.

“No problem.” Is what he says. His voice is warm, but there’s a strain to it, now. “Where did you say you were from, again?”

His breath catches in his throat, and he has to clear it again to force the next words out. “The Dream SMP.” 

He risks a glance up, but there’s nothing in the man's posture that gives him away. Relaxed, almost nonchalant as he types away at the interface, acknowledging his words with a quiet hum.

He risks another glance at the other men in the room. They seem concerned, trading worried glances back and forth as they talk without ever opening their mouths. A conversation made entirely with head tilts and meaningful looks, he can’t make any sense of it, but whatever solution they come to doesn’t seem to be a good one. He swallows.

He snaps his gaze back down when Xisuma speaks again. “...Right. Can you tell me the address?”

He rattles it off easily, the numbers and letters well ingrained into his memory. The buttons click softly as the Admin types each one in with care.

“Hmm.” He says, after a pause. “Tommy… Are you sure you have me the right address?”

And, for the second time in five minutes, he feels his stomach  _ drop _ . 

“Yes.” He says, and there’s certainty clear in his voice. “That was the right address.”

Xisuma hums again, though this time it sounds almost… frustrated. Another series of soft clicks, typed faster, this time. Then, so soft he can barely hear it, a quiet  _ pop  _ as a new screen pops up.

He clenches his fists harder, nails digging into the skin of his palm. He wants to look up, he does, but this is their  _ admin,  _ he needs to be respectful. He keeps his gaze stubbornly downward, fighting back the curiosity that itches in him. 

The pause is over soon enough. 

“Tommy.” The Admin says, voice much, much softer than before. Gentle. "Tommy, can you look at me.”

He swallows, again. 

He looks up. Xisuma is looking back at him, head tilted slightly to one side. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking with the mask, but the tone in his voice is achingly familiar. It’s the voice you have when you tell someone they’re never going to be able to go home again. He’s able to recognize it pretty well, by now. 

So, when the words that follow are, “You’re going to have to stay here for a bit. I’m sure I can get this sorted out, but in the meantime-“

He tunes him out.

He stops caring about eye contact, any thoughts about respect and staying on his good side go out the window the minute he hears those words.  _ You’re going to have to stay here for a bit. _

No.  _ No. No. Nononono NO- _

_ “No!” _

The thing that floods his veins now isn’t anger, not really. It’s desperation, sharp and jagged in his voice. A cornered animal isn't biting you out of anger.

and in that instant that's what he feels like. A cornered animal. The walls seem to press in, all of a sudden, the lack of windows suffocating. They're standing too close, too close, _too close tooclose-_

He glares the admin down, eyes blazing. He can’t meet the man’s gaze exactly through the tinted visor but he tries his best. Lips drawn back in a snarl, hands clenched into fists, feet a shoulders width apart. It’s a challenge. He prays the man can’t see how wildly his hands are shaking, how unsteady his fighting position is. How easy it would be to take him down. 

He has too much to loose, now. He can’t accept no for answer, no is a  _ death sentence  _ for the people he cares about. He can’t, he can’t, he  _ can’t.  _

“You don’t understand.” He chokes out, half-way between a snarl and a plead. “I  _ have  _ to go back. My D- My  _ friend  _ is in danger-

_ -A man in green leaning over him, a splatter of crimson across his jaw, a smudge under his nose. He’s crying, vivid green eyes welling with tears that drip hot and salty on his face- _

“-I’m fighting in a  _ war.  _ If I don’t get home, lots of people, my  _ friends,  _ everyone I care about, they’re going to  _ die-“ _

- _ A boy with dark hair, clinging to him like a drowning man to driftwood. The smell of ash, the smell of blood. The clash of swords, glinting through the TNT smoke like lightning. Yelling. Red, red blood, red vines, red clothes. Red, red, red. _

“-My  _ home  _ is in danger, My best friend is on his  _ last life.  _ If he isn’t killed, he’s going to be tortured. I have to be there to help them, I  _ have to be.” _

When he finishes, he’s panting. Swaying precariously on tired legs, eyes flashing like a thunderstorm as he looks over the men in front of him, meeting their gazes steadily and daring them to challenge him back. Desperation is one hell of a drug, the only thing keeping him upright and snarling as the potion in his system saps his strength. They can’t keep him here, they  _ can’t. They can’t, they can’t, they- _

They look  _ horrified. _

Mumbo and Grian do, atleast. The first like he’s swallowed a rotten piece of meat and is about to throw it back up, and the latter is staring at his arms, again, face pale as a sheet as his words click into place. The look on their faces brings him back to himself sharply. 

Xisuma seems perfectly neutral. It’s hard to get expressions across with a mask over your face, after all. Exile with Dream had taught him how to read emotions in other ways, though. His hands are shaking, trembling just enough for him to catch it out of the corner of his eye. 

“I’ll do the best I can.” Is his response, voice a little strained but otherwise perfectly measured. “I promise I’ll do the best I can.”

Tommy feels his shoulders go slack. He gives him a curt nod, letting his gaze slide off of his mask to his shoulder, challenge forgotten, for now. He promised, after all. In the Dream SMP, you don’t make promises unless you’re sure you can go through with it. If Xuisma is anywhere near a man of honor, he’ll stick to it. He lowers his gaze again, the panic that had risen in him settling uneasily in his chest, the suffocating feeling momentarily swallowed. he's stuck for now, but just _for now._ He'll take it.

The admin turns and leaves moments later, gait noticeably jerkier than it had been before. He watches him go, and doesn’t let the tension fall out of his body until the door is shut and the footsteps are gone. 

Once he’s sure the Admin is gone, however, he lets his eyes close and falls like a puppet with cut strings sideways on to the bed, well and truly  _ exhausted.  _ A sigh of relief forces its way out of his chest, and he feels like he can finally breathe easy now that he’s not trying not to step on anyone’s toes. He takes his first full breath since the admin showed up, and revels in the feeling.

Grian makes a strangled noise, a bit like a parrot being stepped on, and there’s a rush of footsteps. “Tommy? Tommy are you alright?”

“I’m good.” He responds, voice partially muffled by fabric. “Tired. I’m alright.”

More footsteps, muffled conversation he doesn’t bother trying to decipher. The voices are strained with barely disguised panic, and he resists the urge to roll his eyes. Between the potion and the uh…  _ Rough,  _ conversation, it was no wonder he was out of energy. It’s not like he was dying. 

He ignores them the best he can. He wants to ask them to leave him alone, but the words die on his tongue before he works up the nerve to voice them. As long as they’re not bothering him, he can just pretend they don’t exist. 

He runs his hand over his chest, in the place his compass would have sat, if he hadn’t lost it when he respawned here.  _ I’m doing the best I can, Tubbo. Sam. Fuckin Puffy too, and everyone else.  _ He sighs, melting into the soft bed.  _ I promise I’ll be back soon. Just hold on, big T. Just for a little bit. _

More footsteps, this time, they split. The door creaks it’s awful creak, and one disappears quickly the same way the Admin’s had gone. 

The other moves closer to the bed, dragging a chair with it. He recognizes the soft padding of worn sneakers, and doesn’t bother turning over to look. 

Exposing your back to someone is a pretty big sign of trust, where he’s from. Sleeping with someone else nearby is an even bigger one. A small part of him hopes Grian understands it for what it is, a wordless  _ I trust you to not hurt me,  _ something that was rare in the Dream SMP. The rest of him hopes he never figures it out, but he’s too tired to be embarrassed right now.

“I’m glad you’re getting some sleep.” He muses softly, more to himself than to Tommy.  _ What does it look like I’m trying to do, dumbass?  _

Feather light fingers ghost over his shoulder blades, and he forces himself to relax to keep from flinching away. _The fuck?_

Grian's voice again, soft. Thoughtful. “You might have to take another potion, soon. You’ll need your strength for when your wings come in.”

His eyes snap open.

“My  _ What-“ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again sorry about the wait. I don't think I've ever had more trouble with a chapter before, this has definitely been the hardest to write so far, so I hope you enjoyed. I really hope there aren't too many mistakes. I'll be out of town for a while, so I'm not quite sure when the next chapter will be up, sometime within the next two weeks, I'm sure. 
> 
> Until then, loves. Stay safe.
> 
> -Matches

**Author's Note:**

> See you next time, loves. 
> 
> Edit: Fixed the italics, they should show up now. 
> 
> -Matches


End file.
